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I haven’t written any posts since I’ve been back from Amsterdam because, really, who wants to hear from a happywoman-1008690_960_720 person?  I mean you’ve all been very supportive since I started writing about my midlife crisis and I’m sure you’re glad I finally pulled myself out of that rut. But one thing you may not know and may not be at all prepared for is that when I’m happy, I tend to get a bit born again-y about whatever it is I think may be responsible for my cheerfulness.

And then I annoy people. Which makes them grow distance-y, which is sad but also great because then I can write funny stuff about feeling alienated.

 

But before I go too far along that road, it’s important to reflect a little on where I’ve been.

It’s been waaaay more days than the supposed 3-day stint in the Valley of Death.  My version of the ultimate pilgrimage has taken, like three years. It’s a shitty place,  The void of not knowing, which for me incites panic, which leads to a whole lot of flailing and floundering, which from the outside does indeed look a lot like Blundering.  So BlunderWoman was really a very accurate description of who I’ve been for the last few years.

But every time I come through an identity crisis, my old name, just like my old hair style and most of my clothes – no longer fit. In fact, wearing them soon becomes unbearable and I yearn to shed them.

Did you know I used to be called Myriam? It was my name until I went to a Sweat on Saltspring Island as part of some “Discover The Life You Were Meant To Live” Workshop and discovered Myriam means bitterness in Hebrew. In a really freaky way, this did accurately describe so much about the life I’d been forced to inhabit and couldn’t for during my childhood and a huge chunk of my Adolescence (Note: this developmental stage in my personality lasted well into my 30’s…so this name change actually happened when i was 28).  I was utterly gutted when I fully understood that a wrong identity does to a life.  So I left all my ID at home and quit my job to hitchhike with Patrick, the guy who’d been receiving telepathic messages from Alanis Morissette conveyed through lyrics from her  album, Jagged Little Pill.  It was totally, divine will that he was to meet her in Toronto in order to impregnate her.

didgeridoo-player

(Note: I was never even remotely tempted to have sex with this man. Alainis….you lucky, lucky bitch)

I considered this man a teacher or at least some sort of guide, but he kept telling me that I was ruining his trip. Because, I can see looking back, that I was supposed to be a silent observer of his awesome abilities as an evolved human… but I kept getting in the way.  So then it became my fault that he wasn’t getting what he was used to: it was taking longer to get rides. And the quality of connection with the people who picked us up wasn’t intense enough and the guidance that he usually received was muffled and frequently wrong.  I was fucking with his frequencies and that somehow made me a screw up too.  “Fuck!  Am I ever going to be anyone other than a Myriam?”
me-in-the-face-of-defeatBTW this is who I imagined I was destined to become.

 

But we had this little incident just outside WaWa, Ontario – which is a place notoriously impossible to catch a ride.  We could see storm clouds building on the horizon and I knew we needed to get under cover pretty fast.  But Patrick had his heart set on manifesting a little cabin (for free) where he could stay and meditate and prepare to mind-meld with Alainis…

I pointed out a hotel where we might treat ourselves to a shower and good night’s sleep.   We passed a bunch of little motel cabins (which I thought were pretty damn close to his vision except they still cost money and the Universe had always supported him) I suggested that the Universe had presented us with one last gift under a bridge just as the rain started coming down in sheets.  Still Patrick was sure he was going to get his wish. wawa-ont

It was nearly 300 km to the next town or human being. And the rain was like nothing I’d ever seen before. The wind was blowing so hard the rain was actually hitting me on the side of my body. It was at this moment, with the rain pouring down my back, soaking everything I owned that I realized Patrick was full of shit.  And I wasn’t on his trip, he was on mine.

Those were all rides, I needed to get and I’d gotten something from every single conversation we’d had. It was my trip. And up until then, I’d allowed him to run the whole show. Only because I believed I was to broken to do it on my own.

At last I took control of the whole situation, stuck out my thumb and caught a ride to Sault Ste Marie, leaving Patrick to miss Alainis Morsettes’s tour bus by three days. I then hitchhiked alone to Cape Breton, NS where I realized, on a tiny little farm in a tinier little town, discovered that my true name was Maia.  Maia is Greek. She was one of the muses and the Grandmother of Magic.

She was also raped by Zeus, but who wasn’t.

Once this became clear to me, the rest of my life seemed to open up and one door after another opened until my life began to fit again.

This time around, I have been a BlunderWoman for a long time:  Straining my marriage (but not permanently) Messing with my mental health. Trying to find freedom while keeping all the things that make me feel trapped intact. And accepting once again that mostly, I’m a fuck up.

But then I went to Amsterdam. And by some act of Grace attracted a series of people who had all managed to articulate the life they were meant to live and how they were creating it – no exception, no excuses. No fucking around.

When I described my own internal conflict with doing this, these people brushed me off. Self pity is not a helpful or necessary emotion. And what’s worse, it blocks that internal voice. That voice that connects me to a benevolent and intelligent universe who is always moving to become my true self.  And then Jay, that Pirate in the Juice Bar who randomly massaged me (refer to last Blog Post) and opened something up in my body so i can sort of feel what theses guys are talking about.

Now thinking that Blunder Woman is no longer an apt description of who I am. I don’t feel like some fool, struggling along, desperate and clumsy.  I think I might be standing a bit taller. Commanding my space a little better. Strutting my stuff a bit more. I know more than I think I do. So I’m changing my blog name to Resting Bitch Face.  Because that’s what I look like when I’m not worried that I’ll freak people out.  When I was younger, someone told me that my thick dark eyebrows looked super scary when relaxed. They create this dark overhang that makes my eyes look fierce. So to correct this, I’ve been keeping my eyebrows perpetually raised up. So people would like me and feel comfortable talking to me.  But now, in my 40’s, the effort of doing this has created these creases and lines that I now pay hundreds of dollars to get botoxed out.  So Fuck it.  I’m just going to let my eyebrows fall where they like. And this is going to be the new metaphor for my life.

Funny story:  I was at Wreck Beach with Alice the other day. Hanging out in the last of the summer sun when a man came over and asks me,  “Are you a witch?”

cat-bitch-face

“yes. Yes I am.  With a silent ‘B”.”

But that B is getting a whole lot louder.

 

Ha ha.

 

Please please – resubscribe to my blog. My lack of technical skills caused me to lose all your addresses and I really would like to send you little uninspiring quotes and warnings that I might be in your area doing a reading and need to stay on your couch.

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