Time Flies

It's been a while since I've written regularly on this blog. It's crazy how time flies. I feel like it's just moving and moving. My son is in 3rd grade now and he says, "DUHHH, Mom!" when I make a statement he finds dumb. His version of swearing is: "What the beeeeeeeeeep?" Instead of running to his Lego's, he now runs to the computer to play his game. He talks networks, lagging systems, mining, crafting. And, he's so excited about it. He's always sharing tidbits with me. I just smile and nod because really now, I have no idea what he's talking about.

Anyway, in the past year, I've seen great movies, had wonderful meals with good friends, rocked out to Journey in my kitchen, made delicious food, lost a bunch of weight, and read so many mysteries that I can't keep the stories straight. I've also made some terrible mistakes that I hope I can repair. Through the seasons and volunteering at my son's school, I've been feeling restless.

I just reread a post that I wrote about my brothers last October and how their deaths have affected me.

After reading through what I wrote last year, I can honestly say that even though I was trying to be brave, right now, I am unsettled about their deaths. How can I ever feel at peace with their deaths?  I spent my whole life battling with them. Childhood with my brothers was a nightmare, our 20's weren't much better, and our 30's were spent split and torn apart. I always thought we'd make up as we matured, I always thought we had time to heal all the pain that we endured, I always thought we could look back and laugh at how stupid we acted.

Their deaths have shaken me to the core. We weren't particularly close but I did love them. I loved little things like the way my brother Michael rocked back and forth when he was happy or hearing of his adventures (of which he had many crazy, crazy adventures). Or my brother Alan's complete surprise when I shared with him how to remember when the moon is waxing or waning or watching him whip up his favorite meal.

Two years before my brother Michael died, he had a dream in which he died. This dream rattled him and I noticed a shift in how he approached his life. If anything, he became more reckless. He'd always been a passionate and impatient person. With his dream of death looming over him, he became even more impatient and almost frenzied in how he attacked his life. I say attack because that's how he did his life...full tilt.

When we were at Michael's funeral, my brother Alan was incredibly sad and visibly shaken. He had such a violent physical reaction to Michael's death that he got hives when he found out that Michael had died. Alan's eyes filled with tears as he asked me, "Camille, who will come to my funeral? Who will be there for me? Who?" I put my hand on his shoulder and told him, "Me. I'll be there for you. I will. I'm here for you."

Two years later, Alan died in an ATV accident. Here one minute, gone the next. I was stunned. I was angry. I was scared. My thoughts roamed...what about my mom and dad, what about me. I'm the only one left, the only one. Who will understand the little jokes we'd tell each other about our family?  Who will I talk with about my parents and my childhood? I will talk to me, because I am the only one left. Only. One. Left.

It's not fun to have two people ripped from my heart. At first, their deaths felt like a stab to my heart, an actual knife stuck in my heart, twisting and pressing further into my flesh. I actually felt trickles of heat ooze from my metaphorical stab wound. It stayed there for a long, long, long time. Only recently has it begun to feel less like a throbbing pain in my heart. It's morphed into more of a dull ache. To top things off, soon after Alan died, my uncle got hit by a car on his way to work at 6 am. Who the fuck hits a guy then leaves them there to bleed to death and die alone in the cold foggy morning?

Childhood with my brothers was so wretched and horrible that I always dreamed of being an only child. As a child, I'd daydream about it and how lovely it would be. I used to have actual dreams of being an only child. Now I am an only child and it's not a dream. And, it's not lovely.

So, imagine my surprise, imagine my horror, imagine how frightened I became when recently, I dreamed that I had died and was just...plain...gone. In my dream, my son continued to live, my mom and dad lived as well, my husband continued on. It scared the crap out of me. And, right now, I am scared. Part of me knows that these dreams my family has of death are probably just some subconscious message. These are only dreams, right? I wonder, am I next and when will it happen? How will it happen? And, where do we go when we die? Where are my brothers? Where's my uncle?

I've got so many things that I want to do before I die that lately, I have been going crazy. I need to write letters to my son for each age he will be as he grows up. I need to address my marriage. I need to settle things with my mom, work out those kinks that have gotten in the way of my loving her fully. I need to get my ass to Vegas to help my cousin rewrite her resume and start her on a search for a meaningful career or just go out drinking or both. If I lived in Vegas, you know where I'd be working...Zappos of course! No, not the casinos. My passion for shoes overrides the lure of the casinos! I also need to get out to the midwest to visit Cy and Madonna (not that one, I mean my cousin Madonna).

My friend Schell says I am living as if I am going to die. Maybe, maybe not. But, I do know that there are some things that I can't put up with anymore and there are things that I want more of in my life. It's not the big things that I want. I don't want material possessions (well...except for shoes. Yes, I am a shoe whore and I would own busloads if I could). What I want is to feel more, have more experiences, and feel free in my heart. I want to feel passion, sensuality, connection, and freedom before I die. One way I know how to get that is through dance. I want more dancing in my life.

I love to dance. I've always loved it. Dancing makes me feel open, free, and passionate. It also makes me feel incredible sadness, sorrow, and happiness. Dancing can make me cry and laugh all at once. When I dance, I am more able to feel my emotions. They float on my skin, they move in and out with my breath and I can feel the pang of emotion press into my heart. It feels delicious, like a delicate meal that is slightly spiced.

I'll dance to anything with a beat. I love latin dancing, club dancing (love the loud thumping bass), modern dance, ballet, dance routines from dance-y movies (like Pitch Perfect), cheerleading routines (those are dance), ice dancing, ballroom dance, song and dance... If it moves, I love it. I used to dream of being a dancer and was actually training at one point. But, a knee injury or two messed up that plan.

I just began taking salsa and bachata lessons at Salsa Con Todo in Seattle. I love both of those dances. I like salsa because it's energetic and fun. The spins in salsa feel like a roller coaster! And with salsa, there is much laughter. I like bachata because it's slow and sensual. When I dance bachata with an expressive dance partner, it makes me feel so happy and my heart feels light. A month ago at the Century Ballroom Bachata night, my dance partner spun us around and around. We laughed and laughed and shared such a nice human connection. I was so happy in that moment and I felt in my heart that I could die right then and be ok with it. My eyes welled up with tears of joy as we continued to spin around the room. It was a perfect moment.

That's what I would like more of, perfect moments. I only wish that somehow I could have more moments to heal the wounds between me and my two brothers. But, I'll take the perfect moments and let them marinate my heart and soul. In my heart, I will toast them as I find freedom in these perfect moments and one day when I die, perhaps I'll be able to share more time with them, heal old wounds, laugh at how dumb we were, and that will be perfect.