knots.

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Love is a great tangling thing.

Like a puppet getting caught in its own strings; knots and things.

It’s also really frustrating, when you struggle to straighten them out. Hours, fumbling with your fingers, figuring out which goes and where. It’s easy to give up, too.

I think that’s what things feel like to me right now. I’d like to think it is easy to hold loosely, as much as I say I do, but I do not. In fact I hold on to mostly everything. Sure, some looser than others, but I still hold them. I feel like there are people I think about every day — like a checklist. I think about them and they bring me back to myself. Who I was to them, how they made me feel.

It’s all knotted up there.

The tighter I pull, the harder it gets.

The same goes for place.
There’s a line from a song that goes, “Every place I go, I take another place with me.”

This is my longing. To belong. To remember. The feeling of a place and of a person.
We change though, and I am so thankful for change. I am content to gain people, while l also lose some in the process. That’s just how my brain works and what my heart can handle. I can only process a few at a time. I know myself well enough to see when I am being superficial. That to me, feels unkind and un-me-like.

But alas, I am tangled in a world of knots.

Cassandra-Smith-nautical-knot-Haus-Interior-5-via-Remodelista

I am unsure how one moves through this world without the occasional snag — sometimes that involves breaking down into a million pieces and sometimes that looks like eating ice cream cones in a coastal town, somewhere.

Untangling takes time, and I am not a great untangler. I don’t think that’s a word. At least it’s underlined in red, so I know it’s not a word, but I don’t care today. I’m not a great untangler.

Like my fishing pole when I reel and feel it stop with plenty of line left. I get antsy and angry. I wanna throw it down. Sometimes I just cut it loose. But as we all know, you can’t always cut it loose. Sometimes you have to work to keep from losing it. Especially if it’s something worth holding on to.

I’m always taking stock of my people. Some days I feel like I’m losing, and some days I feel really strong. I am working hard at maintaining a peace of mind.

I hold on to them knots like heirlooms. I remember why they feel as they do and there is strength in all of it. Perhaps some sense of loss, but they’re all still there. Because though I hold loosely, I still remember and I still make room to lose things I love.

That is hard hard hard.

But that is it, isn’t it.
And you live with it,

those knots and things.

saved.

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When I was a kid, my dad was Jesus.

Not in the way you might think.

He was actually Jesus.
For the Easter Cantata at church.

He could sing pretty well. I think that’s why, and he generally had a knack for theatrics.
In fact, the church used my Indiana Jones whip to push him down our red carpeted aisles. Fake blood and wounds lined his back.

I saw him there, hanging on the cross, too.
He was hanging between a hippie computer technician and another man.
I’m not sure what he did.

I saw him hang his head.
He was put into a tomb and he came back alive.
(Two’ish days compiled into two’ish minutes.)

I don’t remember feeling very sad. Because I knew my dad was really alive.
Other things made me sad.

Hendrick_ter_Brugghen_-_Christ_Crowned_with_Thorns_-_Google_Art_Project

I always say it is unusual to process your childhood as an adult.
Adults seemed more like adults back then and you realize now that your parents were actually trying to do the best they could with what they had.

Mostly, because I watch my friends and family with kids and see how books and articles will never actually describe or explain to them what it will be like to be a parent.

I am a person who recognizes how difficult things will be. That’s not to say that I find the path of least resistance. But knowing things will be hard, at least in my own head, lessens the blow.

A lot of people in my world are going through some really icky shit.

There is no other way to describe it only that it is like accidentally sticking your hands in pine tar.
You’re in it for the long haul.

And this is what it is like, after all. To be human. To feed yourself. To conflict with other peoples’ well beings. To maybe leave them and this place better than when you found it.

Sometimes, you see your actual father hanging on a cross and it makes you think.

Maybe not when you were nine years old.

But maybe 20 years later when you’re frying eggs on the line,

and you pause and remember,

all of the things,

that have saved you.