Monika Basile's Blog: Confessions of a Bleeding Heart - Posts Tagged "heart"
The Creeps
Love has a funny way of creeping up on you when you least expect it. Please note I am saying, “not expecting” and not the infamous phrase of “not looking for it”. There is a difference.
I am almost fearful to even write about it, as if it will all disappear simply to put it into words. At the same time I have wanted to shout from the rooftops, “Here now! It’s happening!” Instead I have been more quiet about this gentle surprise—wanting to keep it all safely hidden away so no one picks it apart—especially me. I tend to be someone to overanalyze things. I am sure most folks have figured that out.
I think it’s quite humorous for God to put someone in my life that I never in a million years would have thought I would have fallen in love with when he once had literally made me puke.
He was one of my brother’s friends. I met him when I was six or seven. We walked to school each day, my brother and him and me. I remember him being funny and making me laugh—except the day I puked after listening to him burp the ABC’s. We were in a heated car, my father driving the boys to bowling and me the tag along. He was himself, a goofball, and started to burp these long horrendous sounds, making me nauseous. When we arrived at the bowling alley I went right inside to the bathroom and was sick. This is my most distinct memory of him. I also remember him walking this tiny little dog he told me was named Killer and how I laughed and laughed over that. I find out now that it wasn’t even the dog’s name.
He crept up on me. I crept up on him. Love can be creepy. Who would have thought it?
It’s here now—in all its imperfection and I am just amazed at how different it is than I thought it would be. It is an odd feeling that he stays. I have this fear that he won’t, not because of anything he does because he is consistently consistent. It is something I have to own—this unreasonable fear that I am trying hard to shake, because it is just that—unreasonable. It is amazing to me too, that when I told him that—he didn’t run right then.
Trust is not an easy thing to give when you have had it broken over and over and over again. Yet, I have chosen to jump in with the faith that I have placed my heart into the most tender of hands—in the hands of a man who loves me back.
I come into this from a place of gratitude. I feel lucky. I don’t feel like I am owed this or deserve this or I did anything special to obtain it. Everyone deserves love in their lives but it doesn’t mean they will have it. We can all be doing all the right things, being exactly who we should be, and it doesn’t mean it will happen. I feel so thankful, not out of desperation, not out of loneliness, but out of the sheer appreciation of the man he is and that the great orchestration of events allowed him into my life. It feels like such a wondrous adventure to just sit and do nothing—to let it be and allow it all to unfold as it will. I am grateful for the experience and I am blessed that I am utterly aware of the gift of this time.
I only hope it creeps past so slowly so I can savor every moment.
Monika M. Basile
I am almost fearful to even write about it, as if it will all disappear simply to put it into words. At the same time I have wanted to shout from the rooftops, “Here now! It’s happening!” Instead I have been more quiet about this gentle surprise—wanting to keep it all safely hidden away so no one picks it apart—especially me. I tend to be someone to overanalyze things. I am sure most folks have figured that out.
I think it’s quite humorous for God to put someone in my life that I never in a million years would have thought I would have fallen in love with when he once had literally made me puke.
He was one of my brother’s friends. I met him when I was six or seven. We walked to school each day, my brother and him and me. I remember him being funny and making me laugh—except the day I puked after listening to him burp the ABC’s. We were in a heated car, my father driving the boys to bowling and me the tag along. He was himself, a goofball, and started to burp these long horrendous sounds, making me nauseous. When we arrived at the bowling alley I went right inside to the bathroom and was sick. This is my most distinct memory of him. I also remember him walking this tiny little dog he told me was named Killer and how I laughed and laughed over that. I find out now that it wasn’t even the dog’s name.
He crept up on me. I crept up on him. Love can be creepy. Who would have thought it?
It’s here now—in all its imperfection and I am just amazed at how different it is than I thought it would be. It is an odd feeling that he stays. I have this fear that he won’t, not because of anything he does because he is consistently consistent. It is something I have to own—this unreasonable fear that I am trying hard to shake, because it is just that—unreasonable. It is amazing to me too, that when I told him that—he didn’t run right then.
Trust is not an easy thing to give when you have had it broken over and over and over again. Yet, I have chosen to jump in with the faith that I have placed my heart into the most tender of hands—in the hands of a man who loves me back.
I come into this from a place of gratitude. I feel lucky. I don’t feel like I am owed this or deserve this or I did anything special to obtain it. Everyone deserves love in their lives but it doesn’t mean they will have it. We can all be doing all the right things, being exactly who we should be, and it doesn’t mean it will happen. I feel so thankful, not out of desperation, not out of loneliness, but out of the sheer appreciation of the man he is and that the great orchestration of events allowed him into my life. It feels like such a wondrous adventure to just sit and do nothing—to let it be and allow it all to unfold as it will. I am grateful for the experience and I am blessed that I am utterly aware of the gift of this time.
I only hope it creeps past so slowly so I can savor every moment.
Monika M. Basile
No Place Like Home
“I have to get out of this gosh dang town”
“I’m not staying here! There has to be more.”
“Anywhere but here…”
There are much more beautiful places I could be living than this town in Indiana. There are oceans I have never seen and ancient ruins I would love to wake up to with the sunrise. There are mountains for backdrops behind cozy cottages and a million twinkle lights and racing cars zooming through the cities. There are places that have eternal sunshine and some with constant rain instead of the cold and blizzards I am used to. There are stars—billions and billions of stars that I could see much more clearly if I lived in a less polluted space. Yet, I live here.—in this spot. Sometimes, I get angry about where I live and can be ungrateful. Most days though, I am thankful that I have my rusty steps to count the stars on.
We all have those moments when we think we have to be “elsewhere” to find our joy. We can forget that we bring ourselves with us wherever we wind up. We fail to realize we can be happy or content just about anywhere. Or we can be miserable wishing to be anywhere but where we are.
We tell ourselves we need to be somewhere different to start fresh. We really don’t. We just need to actually start. We need to start something and that, in itself, will be fresh.
I am not saying don’t move away or don’t go exploring or don’t dream and create the life you want for yourself. I am only saying that no matter how far you run, you can never escape yourself. The things that bother you where you are will be the same things that follow you on.
You are still very much you no matter what wonderful place you live in. If you aren’t thankful for the warm bed you sleep in, you won’t be more thankful for a warm fancy bed in Paris. If you destroy relationships in Michigan you will very easily destroy the new relationships you create in New York. If you hate the people of your home town you will also find many people to hate in the big city. If traffic on the expressway annoys you to death—then getting stuck behind a tractor down a quiet country road will be the same bother.
It doesn’t matter at all where we live and what we call home. It matters how we feel about it and those who are sharing our life with us. It matters that we actually have someplace to call “home” no matter how modest and humble or extravagant and huge. Home really is where the heart is. Life is not easier in one place or the other really. Everywhere has its advantages and disadvantages.
Even in what we might consider the lowliest places—there is beauty and there are good people doing the best they can. In the most gorgeous and affluent places, there can be darkness and sadness and people who never notice the beauty around them.
We can find our joy anywhere. We don’t have to run a million miles to be better off. We only need to take a fresh look at the place we are or the place we are going to and make the point to focus on the best parts. And if we can’t find those best parts, we need to take a closer look at ourselves and create them. It never hurt anyone to become the best they can be.
Monika M. Basile
“I’m not staying here! There has to be more.”
“Anywhere but here…”
There are much more beautiful places I could be living than this town in Indiana. There are oceans I have never seen and ancient ruins I would love to wake up to with the sunrise. There are mountains for backdrops behind cozy cottages and a million twinkle lights and racing cars zooming through the cities. There are places that have eternal sunshine and some with constant rain instead of the cold and blizzards I am used to. There are stars—billions and billions of stars that I could see much more clearly if I lived in a less polluted space. Yet, I live here.—in this spot. Sometimes, I get angry about where I live and can be ungrateful. Most days though, I am thankful that I have my rusty steps to count the stars on.
We all have those moments when we think we have to be “elsewhere” to find our joy. We can forget that we bring ourselves with us wherever we wind up. We fail to realize we can be happy or content just about anywhere. Or we can be miserable wishing to be anywhere but where we are.
We tell ourselves we need to be somewhere different to start fresh. We really don’t. We just need to actually start. We need to start something and that, in itself, will be fresh.
I am not saying don’t move away or don’t go exploring or don’t dream and create the life you want for yourself. I am only saying that no matter how far you run, you can never escape yourself. The things that bother you where you are will be the same things that follow you on.
You are still very much you no matter what wonderful place you live in. If you aren’t thankful for the warm bed you sleep in, you won’t be more thankful for a warm fancy bed in Paris. If you destroy relationships in Michigan you will very easily destroy the new relationships you create in New York. If you hate the people of your home town you will also find many people to hate in the big city. If traffic on the expressway annoys you to death—then getting stuck behind a tractor down a quiet country road will be the same bother.
It doesn’t matter at all where we live and what we call home. It matters how we feel about it and those who are sharing our life with us. It matters that we actually have someplace to call “home” no matter how modest and humble or extravagant and huge. Home really is where the heart is. Life is not easier in one place or the other really. Everywhere has its advantages and disadvantages.
Even in what we might consider the lowliest places—there is beauty and there are good people doing the best they can. In the most gorgeous and affluent places, there can be darkness and sadness and people who never notice the beauty around them.
We can find our joy anywhere. We don’t have to run a million miles to be better off. We only need to take a fresh look at the place we are or the place we are going to and make the point to focus on the best parts. And if we can’t find those best parts, we need to take a closer look at ourselves and create them. It never hurt anyone to become the best they can be.
Monika M. Basile
