Out of the Woods… with no Expectations

“…and the whole world opened up before me because I had no dreams.” ~Jack Kerouac

In college, this used to be my screen saver.  One of those bouncing message types forever careening off the monitor’s blank walls.  And, as of late, the quote has come rushing back to me as a friend and I have dubbed “no expectations” as a sort-of mantra.  It is a way to let the world open up and to be open to possibility.  A way to be happy.  It is also, I suppose, a form of letting go, something I have been accused of not being very good at.

This is how I started a post, oh an hour or so ago, and got stumped and couldn’t finish.  I liked the part of the post in which I wrote about being young and reading Kerouac and driving through North Carolina cornfields and writing poetry and thinking I was in love with a Carolina boy and being really damned disappointed. Maybe I’ll come back to it.

However, the greatest part about starting the post and being completely unable to finish it, was that I looked through my previous posts of 2013 and realized what a ginormous  friggin corner I’ve turned. Seriously.  Huge.  Walked around.  Completely. No looking back.

For awhile I’ve been saying, when asked how I’m doing, that I turn a corner, hit a wall, turn a corner, blah, blah, blah.

Well, I can honestly say, while I’m sure there are walls ahead of me (and I hope they are all of the able-to-scale variety), I have closed my heart off from the pain of the maze that I was walking through and have found my way out.  Yeah, that big corner.

(Remember that whole business about the dark woods and the wolf and setting up the zombie tent? I’ve packed back out apparently!)

I’ve noticed lately, and perhaps I will get back to the Kerouac, that I am embracing this “no dreams” mentality and I am not allowing difficult times or experiences to gain a strangle-hold on me.  I am open to possibility and am, thank God, learning from mistakes.  (Because I am making them.)  I have allowed love to enter my life in all sorts of exciting forms.  I am, well, free.

And I am learning.  I am learning to feel beautiful.  I am learning to use my voice. I am learning to take care of myself first,

I am also learning to drink my bourbon with a splash of water in it and not just a cube of ice.  (Yes, I suppose that means that I am learning to be a little more classy.  Trying anyhow.)

In addition, adding to my existing knowledge that women wear many hats and walk many a high-set tightrope, I am also learning that men (regardless of their age or seeming maturity) will be men but that not all men will be like the men that say that men will be men.

I hope that makes sense.  (Ladies?)

So, what about it? These lessons?  This corner?

On May 12th, of this year, when I reentered the blogging world, I noted that I was the witch that mortared the oven, and stoked up the flames, and rolled out the crust for my Hansel and Gretel self.  I recognized that I was the one who had built the candied house and beckoned myself in.

I am feeling, tonight, like I have thrown that witch into the self-cleaning (God, I hope) oven and am running away from the candied house (and the vile smell) toward a big, exciting city of dreamlessness and happiness and fun as a woman confident enough to take each beautiful moment as it comes.  You see, maybe I am not the witch that continues to damn myself, nor am I the child that is tempted by the sugar rush knowing so little of the crash.

Not to say that I will not light a dangerous match or reach out for (and probably sometimes take) one (or two) of those gingerbread gumdrops, it’s just that I feel like I have gained a bit more wisdom than all of that and I feel so good.  Maybe even a little sexy, if I do say so myself.

It’s not that life is any easier, it’s just that I am meeting it head on, with no real expectations, taking it moment by moment, and listening and learning and not getting so abashedly stuck.

But, here I am, carrying on and on and have yet to tell a single story.

I could tell the story that I started in the last post about eventually being pushed into gratitude after my car sizzled and smoked and eventually stopped on a 6.5% grade and then, later that evening, cranking up the Lily Allen (I am not ashamed) and letting my musical lungs out as I sort-of maybe moshpitted with myself (and it’s not even mosh pit music) under the hole in my living room ceiling.

I could tell that story, but…

I might just leave this post as is.  Storyless, confessionless, perhaps even a little pointless, because this whole business is here more for me than for you.  (Sorry.)

And, you didn’t have to read it.

So, to the maze and the corners and the walls that I have left behind!  And, to writing something with more cohesion next time around…

I love to end my posts with toasts.  So, raise that bourbon (with a splash of water) and be dreamless.






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