Crow Hill Blues

Why would I be so emotional driving by Glen Isle on my recent trip down 285?  Was it sadness, resentment, hostility, longing, freedom, gladness?  34 years earlier Pete and I had spent that snowy night of our wedding day at Glen Isle.  We had been married in Evergreen, and the post-nuptial ride from Witter Gulch to Bailey was treacherous.  The week before our wedding it had snowed almost three feet in our little valley.  Then we had some midweek melting.  Then it proceeded to snow a foot or so on the day we said our I do's.  April 28th, 1984.

Not even 1/3 into my drive from South Suburban Denver to Montrose I was driving by the abandoned, possibly decrepit Glen Isle.  It is for sale for the first time since 1924.  I knew that few months back because the power of the internet is infinite  (read: sarcastic) and the news came across my feed somewhere.   I actually copied the link and sent it to my wusband, because why not? Why not share the warm fuzziness of nostalgia.  It has always been a dream of Pete's to buy a B & B, or a dude ranch.  So I thought why not feed his bygone vision or at least torture his soul with this update.

What surprised me was that the lodge had no cars when I drove by and an enormous For Sale sign on that strip of land that divides the lodge from the highway.  But tears??  So not like me. (can I really say that if I was on the verge of crying?)  For heaven sake, I am driving - straighten up and pull yourself together, I admonish myself.  Put dry eyes on the road, not teary, sentimental, tissue needing orbs.

What emotion am I feeling?  Am I as happily divorced as I proclaim?  Yes!  Do I miss Pete? Occasionally.  Am I sad about the way I perceive his relationship with our three grown children? Yes, that might be a clue.  Sometimes I do miss being a part of.  Part of a marriage.  Part of a family.  Part of a household.

Ah, but there is plenty I do not miss.  Yelling.  That is being yelled at, and also being the one to open my mouth.  I don't miss the lack on equanimity, feeling as though the loads I carried; kids, financial, household were greater than those of my supposed partner.  Pete did a few things quite well. He was a proficient woodworker and could hide away in his shop for hours or whole weekends working on a project or two.  Our lawn and garden were impeccable. He managed the checkbook and paying the bills.

But he also spent a lot of money.  His money, my money, our money.  When he exited our marital home and took everything he said he needed or wanted there was enough camping gear left behind to outfit an entire scout troop.  The man was a quasi-hoarder of sorts.  If one cookbook on pasta was good, three was better.  If a flannel shirt looked nice in green, why not buy the blue, orange and red at the same time.  Speaking of flannel - I married Paul Bunyan and divorced a metro-sexual.

This burly (almost) Denver native who camped, hiked, cooked, gardened, chopped wood, changed the oil in our vehicles, wore that aforementioned flannel shirt, bear of a man with a mustache and beard and work boots and a down vest turned into a soft, fake-bake, highlighted hair kind of urban dude.  Not quite a hipster, that word wasn't popularized yet.  Not androgynous, but not a beefcake anymore.  Sometimes it shocks me to see him.  Where did my mountain man disappear to?

Reexamining the emotions I listed in the first paragraph - I am going to choose one and stick to it. I pick sadness.  I was positive that when I said "I Do", I would.  I would stay married.  I would honor those long recited vows; sickness, health, better, worse, rich, poor...  I would always be communicative, I would never go to bed angry.  I remember it was just like that for a few years.  The part I think we both missed was the respect, love and cherishing.  I pick sadness because I am sad that my kids have divorced parents.  I am sad that after almost twenty-five years we called it quits.  I am sad my ex-husband quickly remarried.  Was I that easy to replace?  Though much to his credit, she is not a younger, newer version.  

I am also really happy.  Happy that I only need to worry about my own happiness, nutrition, bedtime, vacation plans, daily routine.  This list is infinite.  I am also really joyous.  For many years, I felt a thumbprint pressing upon my heart.  Divorce was a release of joy.  I am always being told I am radiant, and at 58, that is most certainly an inside job. I am also really free.  That is probably the best part.  Practically a reincarnation of my teenage self.  

Au Revoir Glen Isle.  May your next iteration by happy, joyous and free.

Facebook and Boundaries

Recently I commented on a friend of a friends post  On Facebook.  Though I didn't know the original

poster, he tagged our mutual friend and the story appeared in my feed.  

It was a three-word post and it was misinterpreted.  My Facebook friend accused me of being sarcastic (me?) and hateful (ouch!).  There was a hefty amount of vitriol aimed squarely in my direction.  Followed by a request to please unfriend him if I couldn't support him as HUNDREDS of other people have.  Now I am not a person who gets easily worked up over words, but these hurtful remarks had me in the spin cycle.

While I will wholeheartedly admit to being sarcastic, I am not a hateful person.  Like so many of us, I spew my opinions on this public yet oddly quasi-incognito forum named Facebook.  How easy it is for me, and perhaps for you, to hide in front of our screen and behind our keyboard.  That self satisfied, slightly smug feeling of leaning back in our office chair and pressing send.

We're clever.  Witty.  Profound and humorous.  Esoteric even.  We search for memes that say what we can't and re-post them.  We add smiley faces and colorful backgrounds in an effort to be noticed, liked, thought about and commented upon.  But we are not really anonymous.  Our public profiles, family members, group photos, vacation snapshots and selfies are up for communal perusal.  I can know not only where you are at any given point of the day, but when you awoke by the time stamp of your inaugural post du-jour.

No matter what this forum is, was or will become, we are human beings who crave connections.  We invented over 6900 languages to facilitate communication.  We hug each other upon greeting and figured out a symbolic facsimile for our on line transmissions.  

Without Facebook I never would have known what was going on with this person.  Would not have been privy to the previous clues of this unfolding drama, thanks to his prior Facebook posts.  Radio and newspapers are involved!  This is an unfolding story.  I stand with this man, like so many others do.  I respect the choices he made to bring him to this newfound notoriety.  Yet it's quite likely I will not know what happens next.  My three-word comment led to a "please unfriend me" request.  I honor that appeal.

Mostly I am a reasonable person.  I'd like to believe that I think before I respond.  Bypassing reacting. I take my time.  I take a breath.  Or two.  Or ten. 

Even though I am thinking WTF!, I breathe.  And I breathe again.  I took a short walk.  I thought it through. What is my part?  What hurt or harm have I caused.  Why do I let Facebook interactions affect me?  Do I want to be Facebook or real life friends with someone, anyone, who would publicly (sort of...  it is FB) call me sarcastic and hateful?  Why didn't this man just just quickly and quietly unfriend me as you and I have no doubt done many times to Facebook friends?  One press and poof! Gone.  Is asking me to unfriend him through Facebook a modern, technological version of passive-aggressive behavior?  Public shaming in the digital world?

Did other people on Facebook, in person or another way criticize this mans actions, but I became the easy target for his wrath?  More importantly how much of this truly matters?  It matters to me if it drains my energy.  It matters to me if it spins me up.  It matters to me if I spend too much time thinking about this virtual interaction.

Through messenger (read: privately) I sent my now former Facebook friend a note.  Like he said to me in his posted rant, I wished him well in his work and life.  Always room for niceties.  I also profusely apologized for my part.  For my misunderstood three-word post.  I told him I do not intentionally hurt people, especially publicly.  I told him I thought his diatribe was misplaced and perhaps even inappropriate.  Then I deleted the thread of the source of my angst.  And finally I unfriended him.

Not so much because he asked me to, because I wanted to.  Even though I admire this man, his work, community building and entrepreneurship, I choose who I have in my life.  People who rock my serenity or upset my sanity do not have a place in my hula-hoop.  Facebook is not real friendship.  I can live without knowing the ending. Peace is not needing to know what happens next.

I've set my boundary and I feel great!

Postscript:

A few months back a different Facebook friend posted a blanket plea to his Facebook friends to not comment on posts in his feed if you didn't know the person commenting.  Confusing, I know, but also quite simple.  Good advice that I didn't heed at the time, but will forevermore.  Or until Facebook implodes.  Whichever comes first.