Serenity
I went digging through my pictures in search of one, this one I had in mind, an image of serenity. I wanted to print it out and paste it into my journal, the ever-present notebook I now carry to catch those droplets of awareness and peace, the ones that ping me in the aftermath of that great storm 23 days ago. I knew exactly what picture I was looking for. I’m standing at the ocean’s shoreline all by myself, and it was taken by a friend from the top of a high rise 16 floors up. My footprints pock a trail in the sand leading up to what I thought to be a moment of great serenity–me, alone at the ocean’s mouth, without another soul or care in sight.
I found this picture, printed it out and carefully pasted it in, ran my fingers over its edges like braille and smiled. Surely this was peace.
***
I love my daughters more than I could ever begin to express to you, and I believe they know it. I am a hands-on mother, a gushy sort always touching and fussing and kissing, telling them over and over and over again how much I adore them, how proud I am to know them, what a gift they are to me. I thought I was doing a pretty good job, I really did. Yes, I drank far too much, but I did it when they weren’t looking. I made the bed every morning, I kept relatively on top of the laundry, I went out to work each day and I came home from work every night. I cooked meals. My husband had no idea how much I drank, either. I hid everything, and I thought I wasn’t hurting anyone but myself.
It’s funny, how subtle this disease is. How baffling, cunning and powerful, as they say. I really believed I was keeping it all together perfectly. I had no idea just how many filmy levels life has, like Photoshop layers added and peeled away in infinite combination to change every picture just so. I had no idea how many shades of color my own life lacked.
Last Sunday I sent Dave and the girls off to church without me. I wanted to worship on my own, in my own way, with hot freshly-ground coffee and rhombus shapes of crisp white sunlight hiding and seeking on thick, plush carpet. I wanted to stand alone in my home, steep in the stillness and hush of a winter morning in the Wisconsin countryside. So they went, and I thought I would lie on the couch and read, or knit, or maybe do nothing at all, but soon I found myself heading downstairs to the girls’ rooms. I turned on The Weepies and I sipped my coffee and I slowly, calmly started to clean, to rearrange, to sweep out and make new. I did several loads of laundry and I folded each tiny t-shirt and well-worn mini-skirt with what I can only describe as reverence. Hours passed like effortless, powerful waves and before I knew it the entire downstairs was spotless, and I was salt-swollen with love for my family.
That’s when it hit me, when it broke, as these tiny epiphanies so often do these days, how much I’ve resented them. How angrily I’ve cleaned up after them, cursing their laziness, the way they don’t care about anything, why should I buy them anything at all if they’re not gonna take care of it, how fucking hard is it to throw your own clothes in the hamper I don’t care if you’re five, and on mornings like this in the past I would have been sweaty, silent and angry, fuming, my back one ripping scream, and still I would have felt I’d accomplished my tasks for that day, I would have thought it a good day, and I would have not had any awareness at all of my intense anger, the rage eating my insides beneath my perfect, perfect shell. And it was most definitely a shell.
I feel like I’m seeing my family for the first time these days. Like I’m seeing the world for the first time. It sounds so simple, but it’s not. I drove past this majestic sledding hill yesterday, one I’ve been past a thousand times or more, but had never really seen. Never taken my children to. This time I pulled over and I stared at it, glowing and brilliant in the sun, empty and clean as a starched sheet on a brand new day. I was overcome with a powerful urge to take that hill, to feel the biting cold in my teeth and hair as I flew down it, the solid warmth of my daughter braced in my lap, the ache in the backs of my thighs as I climbed it for another round…. I don’t know how to explain to you that I have never really felt things like this before– a true desire to do things because I want to know how they feel, not because I’ve read somewhere that these are things normal people do, things good moms do. Yesterday I bought ingredients to make my own pizza, with the intention of enlisting the kids, because I want to know how it tastes when we make it ourselves. I want to know how it tastes when I eat it with them. I walk through the rooms of my house so deliberately now, putting things in their places, sorting out and fixing what doesn’t make sense, trying to help it recover from years of neglect. I could go on and on, these tiny examples that probably mean very little to you but are so incredibly profound to me.
Tomorrow, the four of us are taking that hill.
***
I was sitting in a meeting yesterday, running my fingers over the edges of that photo of serenity, when a memory crept slowly into my raw and waiting brain. Suddenly I could feel myself in that photo, remember what that afternoon was really like, and I began to realize, with horror, the truth. I was sloppy drunk in that picture. It was the afternoon, I was on spring break with my family, and I was completely isolated. They went sightseeing every single day without me while I stayed behind to read, to have “healthy” mommy alone time, to drink. The memory continued to play out before my eyes though I wanted to slash the screen and I saw it then, what happened next: my oldest daughter runs down to the beach to meet me. I hug her like I always do. She tells me about the camera, we turn and smile brightly up at the high rise together, wave. Another picture is snapped. She starts to drag me back to the building and I fall. I fall down in the sand, pulling my nine-year-old with me, and we both laugh at my clumsiness, at what a fun mom I am, but the truth is it is mere hours after lunch and I cannot even walk.
I sat inside that memory yesterday and closed my eyes against the pain of it, the shame, the agony of the brutal truth. I let myself feel it. I acknowledged it. I vowed to keep it close.
That’s the thing you learn in recovery, that everything you thought was true about yourself when you were drinking, everything you really believed in, was a lie. Black becomes white and four becomes three and up is down and it’s so easy to lose it, to vomit from the dizziness of it all, to really realize, I mean really know, that what you thought was peace, what you thought was good, was a tremendous misunderstanding. That that photo I’d sought out, that picture in the sand that to me meant the ultimate relaxation and bliss, was in reality quite possibly one of the loneliest moments of my life.
But not this. This, this new moment, this fresh peace, it’s breaking my heart in the most exquisite way. Everything I thought I was giving up pales–no, straight-up ghost-white blanches–in comparison to the holy gift of today. Yes, it’s hard. Yes, the moments of true realization are as pure a pain as I have ever felt. Yes, the road ahead is long and blind in its curves and drop-offs, yes. But the colors. Oh, the colors.
If only you could see them.
baronessvonb says:
Well, I do not see your colors, but I’m beginning to see my own colors – so I can completely empathize with the undulating road that is your journey.
There are days when I am certain I will get whiplash from the jerking back and forth between peace and rage, present and past.
By opening yourself in such a eloquent, real way, your candle helps to illumine us all.
Out of the darkness.
Thank you.
February 12th, 2010 at 10:21 am
Ann says:
That’s the adjective I was searching for last night as I kept telling you over and over again how beautiful you looked– how you’d never looked better.
Serene.
You look serene.
(Crying)
((AGAIN)) :
February 12th, 2010 at 10:23 am
Jay Schryer says:
Once again, you’ve written something utterly and completely beautiful. Even if the subject is ugly, your writing is always beautiful.
February 12th, 2010 at 10:27 am
Lisa Rae @ smacksy says:
I am so thrilled for you. And imagine this – it keeps getting better.
You are a beautiful writer and the feelings behind your words, are even more beautiful.
February 12th, 2010 at 10:28 am
zeghsy says:
breathtaking. there’s more i want to say, but i’m not sure where to start. thank you for sharing.
February 12th, 2010 at 10:31 am
maria says:
i have no words to express how you made me feel after reading this. i’ve felt alone in the midst of thousands of people. and i wasn’t drunk. i have a long journey ahead of me. all i can say do is give you 2 quotes that i live by. “Mountains cannot be surmounted except by winding paths.” -Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe and my personal favorite – “Courage does not always roar. sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow.’” -mary anne radmacher and tell you that you are not alone. i heart you so much. we all do. and thank you for sharing your heart with us.
February 12th, 2010 at 10:32 am
anymommy says:
It’s always inside, this peace we seek. That’s what I forget. You have a serene soul, Maggie. I know you’ll walk this recovery road with your head up.
My heart hurts for you because I imagine the hard and the hurt. I’ll be with you, here at least.
February 12th, 2010 at 10:40 am
Sara Joy says:
It’s so easy for me to revel in the wonderment of your writing gift and let the message sort of slide over me.
So I read this twice. And I know this, this awareness, this wonderment, this desire to truly feel. And I am so, so glad that you are reaping the reward for your hard work these 23 days. This is but the beginning, my friend. There is more to come.
February 12th, 2010 at 10:52 am
Stefanie says:
Sometimes, even though it’s almost 9-months into my sobriety, I still see my family as if it’s the first time. I can’t believe that I was using alcohol to distance myself from the intensity of my feelings when all I really wanted was to be connected, to understand why I was here, why I was given this amazing family.
Reading your post also brought back a lot of memories that I thought were good times too until I realized that I was drunk even though I don’t think anyone else would’ve known.
I just relate to you so much.
February 12th, 2010 at 11:09 am
nic @mybottlesup says:
i have no words. but i am crying tears of joy for you.
February 12th, 2010 at 11:10 am
Angi says:
It’s all been said…
your writing IS beautiful
your path is long and hard
you will walk it gracefully no doubt.
And, although you’re not asking for it, I’m giving you my love and support. Because, I’m proud that serenity has a new look for you. I’m proud that the hills you see are not just those that need to be climbed but also those that need to be rode down with the wind in your face and pure joy in your heart.
Keep going, Maggie. We’re here with you, holding you up and maybe learning a little about ourselves along the way.
Angi
February 12th, 2010 at 11:12 am
Heather of the EO says:
Oh dammit, Maggie.
Bawling my clearing head off over here.
I just know. I mean, as negative as I’ve been lately with this stone in my stomach, I keep telling people “but I have more peace than I’ve ever had in my entire life.”
Doesn’t even make sense, it can’t. But it does.
I love you.
February 12th, 2010 at 11:18 am
Katherine says:
I, too, know the feeling that you speak of.
You are doing wonderfully, putting one foot in front of the other.
February 12th, 2010 at 11:25 am
thordora says:
Beautiful.
February 12th, 2010 at 11:47 am
alejna says:
That was so poignant. I’m very choked up now.
Thank you for sharing this.
February 12th, 2010 at 11:53 am
Val says:
So touching, and beautifully written.
February 12th, 2010 at 11:57 am
Sunny says:
Beautiful.
*hug*
February 12th, 2010 at 12:00 pm
robin says:
I am right here, feeling these exact feelings. Same exact place. 5 months of learning my family for the first time. It is beautiful and wonderful and like Stephanie said up there, why we did this all in the first place. Why I wanted to become a wife and mother and experience all of the goodness that comes with it. And now that the alcohol is removed, I am free to experience it all in the rawest form.
Congrats to you for such a brave choice. Good luck on your journey, and seeing all the beautiful things it holds for you.
Beautiful post.
February 12th, 2010 at 12:04 pm
Diana says:
I can totally relate to this revelation, though I could never have written about it so beautifully. I remember when I got sober feeling “joy” for the first time in so many years. It was like being given contact lenses and realizing that you had never seen clearly before. The serenity and joy and all the other good feelings were being drowned out in an effort to avoid their negative cousins. It is hard sometimes, but so worth feeling all the feelings.
February 12th, 2010 at 12:05 pm
Titanium says:
There truly is life inside life. Welcome home, Maggie.
February 12th, 2010 at 12:07 pm
Amy says:
That made me teary. I love reading your words. You have expressed things I feel but don’t know how to put into words…Thank you
February 12th, 2010 at 12:31 pm
MK says:
I just wanted to say hi and that if I could give you a hug, I would. Like a deep don’t let go kind of hug. I’m so happy for you. One day at a time.
February 12th, 2010 at 12:34 pm
Lil says:
Your family knew more than they let on, I guarantee you. Even if your daughters are too young to put a name on why Mommy’s different now, they still know. So many here relate to you and what you’re going through. I sincerely wish I could say I relate to what your daughters are going through but my dad never stopped drinking. I envy them. Who knew over 20 years later that loss would still be with me? Bah. Too melancholy. Sorry.
February 12th, 2010 at 12:43 pm
Slow Panic says:
Gorgeous and heartbreaking. It hits close to home in so many ways. I’m not an alcoholic but I have loved and been close to a few. It’s always always been a part of my life.
And so many things you say about not seeing your family because of what you were caught up in or doing — that hits close to home. I hide from them and resent them in so many ways.
Thank you so much for this post.
February 12th, 2010 at 1:07 pm
Cyndi says:
Gratitude. It’s a wonderful thing.
Walela
“…Be grateful for the struggle
Be thankful for the lessons
And you’ll wash your spirit clean… “
February 12th, 2010 at 1:16 pm
Shayla says:
What an amazing gift you have been given-to have the ability to be true to yourself and to be able to recognize the beauty that comes with the new journey you’re on.
February 12th, 2010 at 1:16 pm
Sadie at heymamas says:
Wow, I don’t even know you at all except for what you share here, but I am sitting at my desk at work crying for you and am so glad that you are starting to live, really live and not just survive.
Your writing is really powerful.
Sadie at heyMamas
February 12th, 2010 at 1:17 pm
Terresa Wellborn says:
I love your musing on the shades of color and filmy levels in life. And the long road with blind curves and drop-offs.
I’ve been reminded in nudges and pulls that it’s the journey that we must learn to delight in. Even if it’s full of skeletons, misdeeds, self abuse in it’s many forms, etc. The striving towards the colors is possible. It is there in us all.
Beautiful post.
February 12th, 2010 at 1:19 pm
thepsychobabble says:
Your posts are truly provoking and touching. I wish you much strength in your new journey
Love,
Jen
February 12th, 2010 at 2:20 pm
Ellie says:
I’m breathless reading this – how powerful. How memory slides and shifts through the haze of recollection and desire – the will to see the world as we want to, not as it is. I have a picture like that, too. I’m laughing at my daughter’s second birthday party – I loved the picture the minute I saw it and put it in a frame. In early sobriety I put it on my mantel to remind myself that I can be happy again. It was a few days later I remembered how drunk I was in that picture, how I had been nipping of a wine bottle stashed in a cabinet. I wanted to smash the picture on the floor, but I leave it up as a reminder. It doesn’t pain me to look at it anymore, because now I can laugh – really laugh – and I don’t have to manufacture happiness.
I can see that picture you describe in my head, and in it I picture you searching over the vast sea – searching for something that is now here. In clarity and in color.
Thank you for your gorgeous words, your honest and your beautiful self.
-Ellie
February 12th, 2010 at 2:31 pm
Ellie says:
I’m breathless reading this – how powerful. How memory slides and shifts through the haze of recollection and desire – the will to see the world as we want to, not as it is. I have a picture like that, too. I’m laughing at my daughter’s second birthday party – I loved the picture the minute I saw it and put it in a frame. In early sobriety I put it on my mantel to remind myself that I can be happy again. It was a few days later I remembered how drunk I was in that picture, how I had been nipping of a wine bottle stashed in a cabinet. I wanted to smash the picture on the floor, but I leave it up as a reminder. It doesn’t pain me to look at it anymore, because now I can laugh – really laugh – and I don’t have to manufacture happiness.
I can see that picture you describe in my head, and in it I picture you searching over the vast sea – searching for something that is now here. In clarity and in color.
Thank you for your gorgeous words, your honesty and your beautiful self.
-Ellie
February 12th, 2010 at 2:31 pm
emma says:
Exactly.
May the colors be infinite.
February 12th, 2010 at 2:37 pm
Corinne says:
Oh Maggie… tears…
This was so profoundly beautiful.
Thank you.
February 12th, 2010 at 3:38 pm
Sock Girl says:
Beautiful, beautiful writing.
((Hugs))
February 12th, 2010 at 3:42 pm
GingerB says:
You are a strong and brave woman, and you deserve the success that will come from all this effort and belief in yourself. You deserve to be well and you will be.
Well done, dammit!
February 12th, 2010 at 3:43 pm
Tracy says:
That was so beautiful. Thank you.
February 12th, 2010 at 4:03 pm
Liz says:
It is February, 2010. You know what that means? My grandfather has been sober for 10 years. And in those 10 years, it’s never occurred to me to ask what it’s like for him; I’ve only thought about what it’s like for the rest of us. Thanks for making me think about that.
And hang in there. I’m so glad you’ve decided to take us with you while you travel this road.
February 12th, 2010 at 4:40 pm
Dory says:
That was… exquisite. Thank you for giving us your gift.
February 12th, 2010 at 4:45 pm
Lee says:
Oh Maggie. This post I will print and keep for me. In a journal of sorts. And I will read it again. Because Part Two kills me. And it’s making me cry. Many tears. On and off all day today. Because what if you feel that way but you don’t have drinking to explain your behavior? What if you have anger and you’re short-tempered and yes, “why can’t you pick up your clothes – I mean you’re five!” and you don’t really see those around you on too many days but you DON’T drink?
What then?
maggie, dammit Reply:
February 12th, 2010 at 6:29 pm
Lee, this is a powerful, powerful question. Your comment is sticking to my ribs for sure. I want to answer your question but I don’t know the answer; I just feel in my bones that you’re not the only one asking. I love you, my friend.
elizabeth (claritychaos) Reply:
February 12th, 2010 at 6:56 pm
I haven’t read through the comments — I stopped here. And I think it’s because it doesn’t have to be drinking for everyone. We all have room for healing, for lifestyle changes, for shift in outlook, for quakes in the way we live our day to day. That’s not to equate stress or chaos or affairs or running away from problems or whatever it may be with alcoholism. But these symptoms you describe and that Lee highlights here — these can be symptoms of many different problems and challenges in our lives.
Maggie, I miss you and I’m so glad to read of you finding serenity. As always, your writing is beautiful. I could feel those powerful, effortless waves and I know exactly how they feel. You have such a gift with creating imagery that articulates a feeling that people didn’t even realize they had.
I’m so happy the color is pouring in and layering your life full, richly. I’d love to catch up sometime soon. I’m so sad I missed last night.
Thanks for sharing this part of your journey with us. It’s really very powerful and moving. I’m so proud of you.
Lee Reply:
February 12th, 2010 at 9:41 pm
From one Lee to another, I can tell you that I have had too many of those days, days when I have no patience for the ones I love most, and take my frustrations out on them, and, like you, drinking did not play a role in my behavior. However, after a lot of self-examination, I was able to figure out what was wrong in my life. The answers were a little painful, but once I was honest with myself, I moved forward with a new sense of balance and a much more pleasant demeanor. I wish you all the best, Lee, as you work your way down that tough path–I promise you, it’s worth it.
February 12th, 2010 at 5:02 pm
Kat says:
I felt so alone when I was secretly drinking myself to nowhere and even now that I am on the road back…..feeling like no other mom out there experienced the hell that I was going through or the joy that I am now finding in my new sobriety. Thank you so much for putting into such beautiful words your experiences that are so similar to mine and probably many other women out there.
February 12th, 2010 at 6:18 pm
sweetsalty kate says:
love. xo
February 12th, 2010 at 7:21 pm
Tara R. says:
It’s like being witness to a rebirth. Breathtaking in so many ways.
February 12th, 2010 at 7:55 pm
Jae says:
amazing, isn’t it, how your perspective changes? it’s a wonderful thing.
keep looking forward and continue to stay courageous.
February 12th, 2010 at 8:49 pm
Lee says:
I applaud how far you’ve come, I applaud your strength, and I hope riding down that hill felt wonderful.
February 12th, 2010 at 9:33 pm
Marie says:
Maggie,
I “get” everything you wrote. It’s always amazing to me to discover another human being who does/thinks/feels the way I do. Because, of course, I thought I was the only one!
I’m on day 32 and the things I see so clearly now are wonderful and frightening at the same time. I try not to be too angry about the things I’ve missed, like your sledding hill. Instead, I try to concentrate on the fact that I appreciate those sledding hills so much more now!
Marie
February 12th, 2010 at 11:00 pm
kelly says:
Oh Mags. Did you know my dad drank? He drank for a long time, like my grandfather did, and my brother did, and we never really knew it. He never really knew it. I wish he had stopped then, before we all knew. He didn’t.
I hope your legs burn beautifully as you climb that hill.
February 13th, 2010 at 4:36 am
Mojo,NC,USA says:
There’s no photographic evidence of it, but I can remember a hundred moments just like the one you describe. There are probably hundreds or even thousands more that I don’t remember. My old friend kept me from being alone in that crowd of people who didn’t see, didn’t give a shit. He’d take care of me, keep me company and who needs these other assholes anyway, right? Walking away from that one friend… that was hard. Because that meant alone was really alone now.
But you know what it wasn’t? It wasn’t fatal. I’m still standing. Sorrowfully surveying the wreckage I left in my wake, but standing. Alone isn’t the worst thing in the world.
I think they call it “Wanting what you have.”
February 13th, 2010 at 7:52 am
tysdaddy says:
Jesus . . .
I sat down this afternoon and opened my Reader. I needed something. For someone to give me what I lack. Maybe it’s perspective . . .
And here you are, my friend.
I cried as I read this. For you. For me. For our families and those moments that are ours and theirs and belong to know one else.
You write of feeling. I haven’t felt anything in a long time. Not in a way that wasn’t selfish our ugly . . .
Thank you, Maggie.
February 13th, 2010 at 11:34 am
tysdaddy says:
. . . that would be “belong to NO one else.”
I’m a mess.
February 13th, 2010 at 11:35 am
Stimey says:
This is beautiful to read.
I have different problems that you, most notably depression, but I see myself in your picture of before. The colors sound wonderful. I’m trying to get there, working to dig out of a many-year, low-level chronic depression.
You’re helping yourself, and that is wonderful, important, and amazing, but you are also giving hope to other people, even people who suffer differently. Other people are not what you should be worrying about right now, but I know it’s something for me to think about.
February 13th, 2010 at 4:00 pm
deb says:
This. This was just everything.
February 13th, 2010 at 4:41 pm
heidi says:
I felt every bit of this.
And on a side note…I love, LOVE the Weepies. Not too many people seem to know about the Weepies, so I get very excited when they’re mentioned. They’re the perfect background to everything.
February 13th, 2010 at 7:17 pm
rockzee says:
I’m four months in and had a hard week last week. Just going through a bit of the winter blues, which are all that much harder in new sobriety. This post lifted me out of that, believe it or not. Just knowing that I’m not alone in the way I feel makes it easier to bear. Thank you for this post.
February 14th, 2010 at 7:28 am
starrlife says:
The honesty of this post is what amazes me. I work with addicts of all kinds everyday and you have described it so perfectly and bravely. Congrats Maggie. Give yourself a hug and add one from me! Savor the day- you will find that they are all of many colors and each one stands in its own right and you will get to know them all.
February 14th, 2010 at 11:16 am
Neil says:
Happy Valentine’s Day, Maggie. How did the pizza you made with the kids come out? Did you use Wisconsin cheese? I hope you didn’t use the cheap tomato sauce from the can. If you’re not going to be drinking, at least enjoy good-tasting food! Glad you are seeing the world in all its technicolor brilliance.
xoxox
February 14th, 2010 at 12:11 pm
Julie says:
Oh, I have the anger too. Inside the lion’s den kind of anger. Thanks for the nudge. I’m going to try and face my own version of this story. You are great!
February 14th, 2010 at 4:45 pm
Postmarc says:
You know, a part of me worried that after “Nine Days Sober” where the next post would come from, or if there would be one, or two or if we are all so lucky, many more. You deserved that distance.
Dammit, you have not lost your touch. You think Photoshop has layers? Simple declaratives observed by the casual reader coexists within complex sets of emotional layers all at once. It makes reading them over and over a new discovery each time.
We are there watching you from above the beach, we are looking at that majestic hill, we are with you and we feel… Thanks for the invite.
February 14th, 2010 at 5:09 pm
Melodie says:
I just wanted to say thank you for this. Wish I had more to say, that this comment was a little more interesting, but it’s not. It’s just a thank you.
February 14th, 2010 at 5:37 pm
The New Girl says:
This is maybe the best post I’ve ever read, EVER. It’s my first time here, which I can’t believe but now I have to read EVERYTHING IN YOUR ARCHIVES.
You have a gift.
February 14th, 2010 at 6:19 pm
deb says:
Oh, Maggie-
Been reading you forever. Have come back to this post multiple times. You have made me stand back and look and myself.
Bless you.
February 14th, 2010 at 6:42 pm
moonspun says:
I am in awe of your writing, the way you type phrases with feeling and imagery. I am proud of your journey to you, the pulling out of raw feelings and acknowledging what they are and what they mean to you. Enjoy those colors…..
February 14th, 2010 at 6:48 pm
jenni says:
You are beautiful.
That’s all.
February 14th, 2010 at 10:10 pm
RecoveringMom says:
thank you
February 15th, 2010 at 1:57 am
Sheila says:
Another amazing post, thank you. The comments are wonderful and very thought provoking. As I said before, I am using WFS not AA in my quest for sobriety. One of the steps of steps in the New Life Program is 9. The past is gone forever. No longer will I be victimized by the past, I am a new person.
It is hard to let go of the guilt…especially if you are feeling guilty for something that happened years ago but you have to. For YOU. You will never see the colors ahead if you keep looking back at the mistakes of the past.
February 15th, 2010 at 7:00 am
Erika says:
Your honesty is stunning. There is a book in all of this for you.
February 15th, 2010 at 7:46 pm
Zak says:
Blown away.
You rock.
Love to you.
February 15th, 2010 at 11:14 pm
muskrat says:
I hope the Maggie version of a world with newly-added colors is better than the shitty versions of “Topper” and “Way Out West” were in the 1980s when they were colorized.
February 16th, 2010 at 6:34 pm
TheKitchenWitch says:
This is so moving and beautiful. You are doing something so important, and thank you for being generous enough to share it with us.
February 17th, 2010 at 1:12 pm
Mr Lady says:
I weep. I sit here reading this, weeping.
I cry for all the joy I have in my heart for you, and the pride that I have in watching you take this journey. Your honesty with yourself is refreshing to me in a way a imagine you understand, though I don’t know if you ever really could.
I also cry because I dream of this for someone close to me, and it helps to know that my dream isn’t impossible. Even if it will never come true in my life, knowing that I am not crazy, that it IS possible, makes it a little better.
Thank you for giving this up to us.
February 17th, 2010 at 2:44 pm
Betty says:
Taking a very very deep breath at the writing and the eye-opening as the post progresses.
February 20th, 2010 at 9:28 am