Tattered and Complete
A Journal for the Perfectly Torn

Category Archives: Love

A Sorta Fairytale

September 28, 2011

“You look back. You look back because that is where the answers lie. You look back to understand the present. From your vantage point the present is unstable, a confusing clamor of competing voices. It is only by casting your mind back to an earlier time, a time when the plans were being drawn up, that the present regains its stability. The earlier time was a simpler time. It was a time of blueprints. As you look back, you begin to see these blueprints emerge. You realize what the initial intentions were.”   -Tom Rath

I had a plan.  I had a plan but things did not go the way I expected. I fell in love with one thing and out of love with another. I forgot the reason I loved the second in the first place.

I lost my balance.

As if he’d known I was waiting, the boy rode up on his white horse. However, he did not carry me away. He asked me to learn how to ride. I could not accept.

And so the queen and her servants took me to court and asked me to dance. I had danced splendidly as a young girl, but as I tried to remember the steps, I moved out of sync and the court became displeased.

Once again the boy pulled me aside to show me his steed. He told me there were secrets to uncovering the souls of animals. He shared with me a few, but he would not tell me all.

And so I yelled at the boy. I told him he did not understand. I told him my heart was breaking, and I wanted it to stop. I told him if he would carry me away on his horse, I could start a new life. The new land would welcome me and all would be as it was before I forgot how to dance.

And still he refused. He told me we could ride together, but I would have to be the guide. He told me not to be afraid anymore. He said I already had all the answers I needed.

It was then that I realized what love meant.



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Grateful You’re Here

July 13, 2011

A few weeks ago, I went to hear David Cunningham, a particularly spectacular speaker and Landmark Forum leader, give a talk. I was awestruck by how much he moved me. People around me were sobbing pretty much the whole way through and my best friend and I were sitting next to each other trying not to do the same.

Quick side note: I’ve mentioned Landmark Education in my writing before, but I’ve been careful not to push the education in this blog. The truth is, much of what I question and then write about stems from my training and work through the organization, but the fact that I am a Landmark Forum graduate does not define me, nor what I create. However, I don’t think this post would make much sense if I didn’t give you at least a little background about it. So I’ll say this—a little over a year ago, before I took the forum and a few additional courses, my world was very different then it is right now. The education I’ve received has absolutely transformed my life. Someday, I’ll write a post in greater depth about this, but for now, just know it’s something that has really helped me and that’s why I continue to go to see Forum leaders like David speak.

David tells stories with such enthusiasm and grace, it’s impossible not to connect with the man. He talked about creating a new relationship with his father after years of five minutes phone conversations every three months about the weather and golf. He talked about losing his partner to AIDS in the 80’s, and how he’d somehow found the courage to ask his father to help him take care of his partner before he died.

Then, he specifically addressed the Landmark Forum graduates in the room and told us that he knew our lives had gotten better through the work we’d done and that they would continue to get better. At this point, I choked up, but my composure was still intact. Everything he had to say was profound and emotional and heartfelt, but what really made me lose it was something so simple.

At the beginning of the night, David thanked everyone for coming and mentioned that he was grateful we were there. Honestly, I barely heard him say that. But, his last words at the end of the night went something like this:

“You can tell I had a great night right? That I had fun and really enjoyed our time together? (We all nodded.) Well, it would not have been great if you all were not here. In fact, it would have been pretty stupid if I’d stood here and talked to nobody. My stories, what I have to say, mean nothing if there is no one to listen. So when I told you all earlier that I was grateful you were here—that’s why. I had the night I had because of you.” 

That was it. I lost it. Here’s why:

I have no idea how many people are currently reading my blog. I know some of you are faithful readers and some of you may just be starting to read it. My hope is that my writing will inspire my readers, and effect change, and be shared with others. Whether that will happen through this blog or through another platform, remains to be seen. But my thoughts, my stories, mean nothing without you.

I’ve spoken before about my love for writing this blog, but I’m not sure I’ve been crystal clear about why I write it in the past. I write it for you and I write it for me. I write it with the hope that it some small way it will help others realize their greatest life. I write it because it reminds me that I can make a difference in other people’s lives. I write it because it reminds me to have humility and to be myself. I write it because of the nights I have because of it.

Thank you, dear readers. I’m so grateful you’re here.

Posted by in Love, Personal Essays Tags: , ,

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For My Mama

May 8, 2011

“A little girl, asked where her home was, replied, “where mother is.”  ~Keith L. Brooks

Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy.

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A Mistake Worth Making

April 30, 2011

Love, Love, Love

You have to love,

And if you don’t get love right, you have to move on.

And forgive.

And then you have to remember that you’ve forgiven,

or else you can’t move on.

And if you don’t move on, You’ll surely end up …

Bitter.

-Mark D. Sanders and Tia Sillers

When I look at the “mistakes” I’ve made in my life, I realize the ones I regret the most are the ones I’ve made when I wasn’t listening to myself. Because when I don’t really listen to myself, I can’t take actions that inspire me. It’s impossible. I make choices I end up regretting, or I just don’t make a choice at all.

The real me reaches for something because it makes me sustainably happy. It matches a purpose in my soul. The other, not so genuine, me chases after something to look good—to satisfy the stories I’ve made up in my head about what having that thing in my life will give me. It doesn’t matter if it’s wanting to be a famous actress, or making a certain amount of money, or moving to a different neighborhood or even state. It’s always the same. I’m not listening to myself. Alarms are going off, and I’m pressing the mute button. I’m chasing after something more, something better, something different … and I can’t see the great things, the great people, already present in my life. I’m selling out myself.

I have a new friend. He’s funny, and charming, and cute, and honest, and completely unavailable romantically. And you know what? I’m fine with that. Cultivating a friendship with this person is reminding me what it was like to have real friendships with men, and I’m realizing how much I’ve missed that. For maybe the first time since high school, I’m seeing myself in a different light. I’m seeing the girl who is fun and sweet and happy and adventurous. I like that girl.

I’ve had about a month of illness coupled with days on end stuck in my apartment to self-reflect. I now get that while I have done what I thought was right for myself over the years, I haven’t really been getting loving myself right. I’ve been looking for that love—that  acceptance—in other people rather than within. So when my friend tells me that I’m not honest about who I really am with him, he’s right. I’m worried he won’t like me if I show him my not so perfect side. The real me is flawed and stubborn and fun and passionate and yes, at times, kind of insane.

There are a handful of men that have unconditionally loved me in my life. Men I’ve been a complete asshole to, but have stuck with me just the same. One of them passed away and another just sent me a guitar. I don’t know why these people choose to stay with me, but my guess is it’s because I showed up as myself for them—not as the act of someone who is trying to be someone else, someone better.

Loving yourself begins with loving exactly who you are and exactly who you are not. This self-love ultimately leads to other people’s acceptance. I’ve never been anything but authentic to this handful of men. I’ve fought with them, and made them sleep in their cars when they’ve come to visit me in college, and made them wrong, and said terrible things to them I now wish I could take back. But I’ve also shown them the support and kindness and affection I’ve recently only been showing my girlfriends.

So today, in this moment, I’m choosing to forgive myself. I’m admitting I haven’t always gotten it right, and I’m moving on. At the same time, I want to honor the wonderfully caring people who have offered me their time and their devotion. These people have left me with amazing memories and helped me feel accepted and whole over the years. And while I know that having them in my life is a direct effect of me being supportive and loyal, I’m still wonderstruck at the kind of love it takes to give a part of oneself away in order to help make another person’s life better.

Posted by in Friendship, Love, Personal Essays Tags: , , ,

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Sicko

March 28, 2011

I woke up with a bad sore throat today. I suspect this may be, in part, due to the cold air humidifier I starting using this week on the recommendation of my dermatologist. Actually, I can’t really blame him, because he didn’t specify which kind of humidifier I should purchase—and I didn’t ask. I just assumed that if the purpose of the thing was to combat the warm, dry air in my apartment, then the cold version would be the better option. Not so, apparently.

When you’re sick, the last thing you want to do is go outside to purchase medicine—especially when it’s 30 degrees out. Luckily, I didn’t have to go anywhere today. My mother makes a habit of sending me vitamins almost every other week. She also sends me sleep aids for when I really can’t sleep, organic licorice, cans of soup, magazines, and cold aids. Everything I needed was already at my disposal. After I called today to tell her about my suspicions regarding the cold air humidifier, she ran out to Bed, Bath, and Beyond (in Florida) and bought me a warm air one to test out.

At first mention, you might think my mom is nuts. I can get everything she sends to me here in New York. Why does she go to the trouble—and the expense—of shipping it all to me?

She does it because she knows I probably won’t go out and purchase most of this stuff on my own. She wants to make sure I eat well, and I’m healthy. She does it because she loves me.

The crazy part is that I complain about my mom—much less now than I did when I was younger—but I still complain. I’ve put a great deal of blame on her over the years, wished she were certain ways she is not, and said some not so nice things to her that made her cry.

The truth is I am very lucky to have the mom I have, and I’m deranged to think otherwise. That’s why, when she got sick a few years ago, I absolutely flipped out. My mom and I are extremely different, but she is my best friend.

Yesterday, I was cleaning out my apartment when I came across a birthday card my mom send me a few years back. This is what she wrote:

Dear Brooklyn, (Brooklyn is the nickname my friend Rick gave to me when I was 15, and it just stuck)

You are everything any Mom would want in a daughter. You are beautiful, smart, and not only a good daughter, but a good friend. I love you with all of my heart. Never forget how special you are.

Love & XXXX,

Mommy Dearest


I know. My mom is pretty awesome.

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With Love

February 14, 2011

My grandmother and my friend, Rick, died within twelve days of each other. She passed away on a Wednesday. The next day I spoke to Rick for the first time in a while. I told him about my grandmother. He tried to comfort me and then asked me to come out with some friends that night. I wasn’t up to it, but I suggested we meet for dinner the next evening. He agreed and said he’d call me to plan a time.

I would never hear from him. The next day he was involved in an accident and ended up in a coma from which he would never awaken. I have always regretted not accepting his invitation to come out the night before the accident.

I often replay the last time I saw my grandmother in my head—how I was wearing green eye shadow and she told me it was pretty and to always wear it. We were sitting in her dining room talking and then watching TV in her bedroom. Eventually, she mentioned it was getting late, so I left.

I remember the last time I saw Rick. He was lying in a hospital bed and I was alone with him saying goodbye.  There was a monitor, and white walls, and stillness, and me—at 23—crying my eyes out, struggling to walk out of the room but not wanting to go. I couldn’t remember ever telling him I’d loved him before, and now I didn’t know if he could hear me.

These moments have haunted me. For nearly ten years, I’ve thought of them only as the last moments I would ever be with these people I loved and the last moments they would ever be with me.

Then this past Saturday, I burned the shit out of my hand.

In that second after I’d touched the pan, I immediately started crying. I cried because in that moment I wanted someone I loved to be there with me—to help me—but I was alone and what I wanted was not so.

A few minutes later, I sat down on my couch. In stillness, I started talking to myself. It was me talking, only not just me. I liken what happened to what Liz Gilbert writes about in Eat, Pray, Love when she tells the story about sitting on her bathroom floor, in despair, praying for an answer to what to do about her marriage. In that moment, she says God told her to “go back to bed.”

What I heard my voice say was, “Everything is going to be OK. You’re not alone. I love you.” It said some other things along the same lines that I won’t get into right now, but like Liz’s experience, I felt it was a voice that cared about me—a voice that wanted me to feel peace. I shared this story with a friend yesterday, and she told me that voice was God—that it was spirit.

Later, as I was blow drying my hair and looking in the mirror, a song popped into my head—as songs often do. (I’ve included the link to video for the song below, and the lyrics can be found just below the video.) When this song began playing in my head, I started crying again. Not because I was upset or afraid but because in that moment I understood that my grandmother, and Rick, and all the people I’ve loved and lost are still here—with me. I have no proof of it. It’s just a feeling I have, and I choose to believe in it.

I’ve been kicking around the ideas of faith and trust and love for the past few weeks. I’ve been searching for ways to understand what they are, what they mean to people, and why people continue to believe in them. Yesterday, on a day known to by many as a day of God and a day of rest, I found faith in the idea that not only is God within us, guiding us and keeping us safe, but our loved ones are as well. From this discovery, I also found trust in the love I have for myself. With the many tears that fell this weekend, came comfort, and support, and clarity.

Originally, this blog entry was supposed to be about loving yourself—in honor of Valentine’s Day. But then, all this stuff just happened, and I had to share it. They say if you want love, give it away and it will come back to you. This blog is my love to anyone who reads what I write. I write it for you, with the hope that it will help inspire you towards your greatest life. But I also write it for myself. I love writing it, and I love looking back at what I write as a reminder of the lessons I’m learning. I hope you love reading it.

“When You Come Back Down” by Nickel Creek

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The Decade of Magical Thinking

February 5, 2011

“It is easy to see the beginnings of things, and harder to see the ends.”  -Joan Didion

When I was a teenager, I had a few close girlfriends, one in particular, who made up my world. They were slightly older than I was and in my mind, they were complete badasses. I admired them and tried to emulate them. I saw them as family, as the sisters I’d wished for as a little girl. They were there to listen to the excitement of my first kiss, and the stories of every dream and heartbreak a girl has at 15 and 16. And then, in an instant, they were gone.

For a long time, I thought they would return. I thought that even though we’d lost touch, memories of the times we’d shared together would bring them back to me. I knew, one day I would find them or they would find me. If you’ve read Joan Didion’s book, you may understand when I say it was truly a decade of magical thinking …

And then, ten years after I’d lost them, I did find them.

They were not the same as I’d remembered, and the reunions I’d expected did not come to pass. They each had families of their own. They had lives that bared no resemblance to the life I remembered—that life no longer existed.

Reflecting on this now, I understand that this is the way the universe works. It places people in our lives, and then, eventually, it takes them out. We are meant to learn from our relationships, and when we stop learning, the relationships end. Sometimes we may need them to end in order to grow. And while, intrinsically, I know goodbyes are a part of life, I still hate to say them—more than anything else, I hate it when people leave.

But, I’m comforted by the awareness that, sometimes, people do stick around. These are the people we will never stop learning from because they are, in my opinion, our soul mates—the great loves of our lives. When I look at my best friend, I see someone who has stuck by me for twelve years. I see a woman who referred to us not speaking for a month as “breaking up” because, consciously or not, she understood the kind of intensity and undeniable love true friendship brings.

These friends are meant to help guide us through life and to heed our guidance. These are the kinds of relationships that hold all that is true and real within them. They are familiar, yet profound. Through these relationships, we are free to persistently evolve because we know, despite our fears, we are safe and supported.

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For You, on Your Birthday

November 28, 2010

I met you at a girlfriend’s house when I was a freshman in high school. I was practicing for a dance show, and I believe awkwardly kicking my left leg in the air when you walked through Jaime’s front door with Adam. You were tall, slender, good looking, and a junior. You drove a black SUV, listened to The Counting Crow’s on heavy rotation, and smacked your gum about a million times a minute. You said hello to the five of us that day, and that was it.

I loved you for many reasons. You were kind and positive. You liked adventure and had more energy than anyone I know. You were simple, and calm, and unaffected by the world. And you were funny. You loved to laugh. You had two catch phrases: I would ask, “How was your day?” to which you always seemed to answer, “I need a vacation!” Your other phrase of choice was, “It’s not easy!” I believe this was meant to describe the part of your life that took place while not on vacation.

And I will tell you, it was not easy. Over the years, we had more than our share of ups and downs. It wasn’t easy to care about you and even more difficult to hate you. But I had fallen in love with you at fourteen, way before I even understood what love really was. You knew my great qualities and even more of my not so great qualities. Yet, you still chose to be my friend and stand by my side.

You died on a Monday in August.

I was 23. You would have been 26 that November.

After Courtney called to alert me of your passing, I got into my car, turned on the radio, and immediately the song played—your song, “Mr. Jones,” the one that always reminded me of you. You loved that song, and there it was, like a sign, or a blessing, or a warning.  I don’t know why I had that experience that day, but I like to think it was simply because my friend just wanted to say “Hi.”

Well, hi back, Rick. Happy Birthday. I miss you.

-Brooklyn


Posted by in Friendship, Love, Personal Essays, Photo

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