BEHOLD - THE POWER OF THREE’S


Today’s blog is brought to you by the number 3...

Throughout my life, the power of the number 3 has always seemed to be influential. Born on the 3rd of April, one of my father’s 3 daughters (the first in his life, yet not the oldest – typical American family – go figure), 3 moles on the right side of my face, 3 mothers in my life, 3 scars on my left hand, the 3 spirits in the Holy Trinity, etc.

Deaths always occur in 3’s. 3 friends killed in high school within the same year. 3 family members died tragically within months of each other, then years later, another 3 family members gone within months of each other also. 3 bunnies in a nest that didn’t make it. Looking back, I can’t remember one death without thinking of two others that occurred around the same timeframe.

Now I have 3 people in my immediate family that I love, take care of, clean up after, want to do things for, and adore. This morning I had 3 lights in a row go out as I drove underneath them while I was thinking deep thoughts. Not 2, not 4. Another paranormal activity that has always happened in my life. Lights going out during emotional moments – not necessarily good or bad. Magically, things like this always occur in three’s. It’s so mysterious to me. Every phone number I’ve ever had, has always had a three in it. The phone number I currently have, and have had for years, has three three’s. You add up all the days in my birth date, and you get 33. The number 3 – my lucky number. My number.

I’ve always been so connected and joined to this number. After finishing the book I’ve been reading for a little while, a story about a physicist, his life, and how his highly ingenious mind works. Leaves me thinking about how the answer to every theory, every situation, could be transformed into an equation, that will inevitably be answered with one number. Everything in this world made up of molecules, cells – all can be transformed through equations into one definitive number.

So I suppose, whatever my equation is, will inevitably be equal and solved with the number 3. Makes me wish I knew what my equation was.

MOTOR MEMOIRS:

Silver anniversary corvette, silver on the outside, black on the inside. T-tops off, sitting in the passenger seat and looking in the side mirror at Linda’s white corvette following us, her driver’s window down, and wavy blonde hair blowing everywhere, supermodel style, and tanned arm exhibiting itself occasionally as she smoked a cigarette. Her matching, appropriate, 80’s style white monstrous sunglasses sitting on her cute little nose, and me wishing that when I grew up, I would be pretty and cute and tiny and cool like that. Linda was sweet as can be. She had it all – looks, personality, outgoing nature, cool car and matching sunglasses – oh and did I say looks?

Then I remember looking back at myself in the mirror, my long, out of control red hair pulled back in a ponytail, and the short hairs that framed my chubby face all messy and frizzy, blowing around, observing my thin dry lips, wishing my dad thought I was old enough to put some lipstick on like my mom would let me do occasionally, seeing my freckled, sunburned nose, and realizing that when I grew up, I was going to be like me, not her, or anybody else I wanted to be that wasn’t like me. Like it or not. Nothing to be done about it either. Accept it, D. Then looking over at my father driving us home to his townhouse in Houston after Mexican food at Ninfa’s, and hoping he wasn’t wishing I’d turn out like her either, that he’d always accept me for being me. Pretty heavy thoughts for a 7 year old.

White convertible mustang, blue interior, white canvas automatic top. Top down. Fall time of year. Out for a drive just to get away. Cold outside, but the top being down didn’t matter ‘cuz I had the heat blaring. Slow roast style. 17 years old. Just got my hair cut, and using my sunglasses as a headband to showcase the new ‘do. Cruising down Northgate Drive, listening to Steve Miller Band belt out Joker, smelling the Ellen Tracy perfume I used to wear back in the day, thinking about Seth and wishing things were different, and keeping an eye out for the same cop that gave me a ticket on that road just a year before. Independent, young, surrounded by things that were “me” in every aspect, yet I was sad. I missed my friend, my confidant, the first person I had ever felt really connected to. And I realized that any other person that would come into my life, that I would appreciate, and care for, I’d manage to screw it up somehow by being me. Every time I drive down Northgate, which is often, I always have a flashback of this memory.

Dark red Jeep Wrangler, tan top. I loved that car. Me in the passenger’s seat (which was a different experience since I hardly let anyone drive that vehicle), hot outside, yet the top was up. Bawling. No radio on. Being driven home after leaving the hospital, and also leaving behind what would have been my now 9 year old child. Hurting on the inside more than the outside, drained from the fright, the pain, not able to get the thought of all that blood out of my head, and feeling the inexperienced driver shifting gears not smoothly, but just jerking me more, and knowing my life would never be the same. Wanting Arnie out of my life, wishing something like this would’ve happened with someone I loved so that I could accept the compassion that I needed. Instead I didn’t want to hear the I’m sorry’s, nor let him touch me or to give me a hug, I just wanted him to drive me home, get in his car, drive away and never come back. I’m thankful he did.


Postscript:
It’s amazing to me how in this generation, this period of time, vehicles tie in with so many of our recollections. Memories of sights, sounds, surroundings, smells, and situations, all tied in with what car we were in. Pinpointing exact thoughts and ideas, or realizations, and being able to remember all of it when we think of that car, or even see a like model on the road to whatever destination it’s going to, creating memories for its passengers on its way. These are just a few of mine… They fill my thoughts recurrently, if not constantly.

Trash:
1 : something worth little or nothing: as a : JUNK, RUBBISH b (1) : empty talk : NONSENSE (2) : inferior or worthless writing or artistic matter; also : such material intended purely for entertainment2 : something in a crumbled or broken condition or mass; especially : debris from pruning or processing plant material3 : a worthless person; also : such persons as a group : RIFFRAFF

Treasure:
1 a (1) : wealth (as money, jewels, or precious metals) stored up or hoarded (2) : wealth of any kind or in any form : RICHES b : a store of money in reserve2 : something of great worth or value; also : a person esteemed as rare or precious3 : a collection of precious things


9,865 days. 27 years. A collection of both trash and treasure. Many things discarded, some held in reserve. Why some things are with me over others, I still wonder…

In this interim period of transference, my fingers walk over all these material collections, memories come flooding back from each, stress welling up in my head and heart, from both pleasant memories and horrific, as I pack each and wonder…

A box full of books ranging from cookbooks to childhood mystery novels to my adoption papers kept in a shiny red Neiman Marcus box. Maddening closed adoption papers with a small and brief card of medical history information handwritten with maybe my birthmother’s hand, maybe some stranger. Everytime I read it, I wonder…

Just like this box full of books and papers that I either could care less about, or have decided to keep with me all these years and tote around through every exasperating move, I wonder – was I trash (a.k.a.: a worthless person), or treasure (a.k.a.: a person esteemed as rare or precious)?

Which hits higher on the scale? Being a person that wasn’t worth keeping to the one that made me, carried me inside them, went through the pain of bringing me to life to just give me away with no other contact in life, or being the person for the two people that wanted a child, yet couldn’t have one, and waited on a waiting list for me to arrive years later, and keep, and hold, and parent? 9,865 days later – I still wonder…

The first thing I lugged and dragged out of the outside storage closet into the cool air conditioned climate was the container full of pictures. Right on top – two smiling faces cutting a cake in a lovely reception hall. One handsome in his tux, truly in love thinking that day was the first day of a joined life with his soul mate. The other knowing better, more intelligent, yet not, happy to have attention and love from someone, feel as though she was a part of a family, and also wishing the day, the cake, the dress, the ring – was being shared with someone that fulfilled her heart, and made her ache when she wasn’t with them.

Being naïve and wishing it was someone that could understand her thoughts, her emotions, share intelligent conversations, want to be something in life, and laugh at impractical behaviors. Yearning for that love that’s so magical, so intense, but not thinking she deserved it, would find it, that it was even real, or not screw it up somehow. Why I still keep these pictures, still in their beautiful frames, out of sight, but knowing they’re nearby, I wonder…

Trash: a worthless person… Only a worthless person would go through with those holy vows knowing his aggression, his lack of intelligence or ambition, knowing she could have very well lived her life alone and been perfectly happy.

Treasure: A collection of precious things… A precious day, in youth, two faces in their prime, beautiful in their own way, in lovely clothes, in a perfect picture, decorated with beautiful frames… The day that should’ve been shared with someone else.

Now that the aftermath is over, now that the damage has been done to both parties, here I am in my self-referenced pristine existence. Divorce final. True life begun, and seeing the scars for what they are. What I deserved, and yet didn’t.

A beautiful child created, and loved and fought over by all, how lucky I am to have gotten something as amazing as this beautiful boy out of that union. A true gift from God.

Not searching, not really wanting it at this point in my life, but finding myself found. Found by someone that my heart is linked to… Someone that I do love with my being. A couple of pains in the ass that think the same thoughts on the inside and worship each other on the outside. Perfect for each other in every way. And someone I had known in a roundabout way since childhood (if that era in my life can even be called childhood). Knowing it’s right in my heart, how I’ve been given an un-deserved second chance, and wondering…

In this new relationship, with all this love and yearning in my heart… What am I to him? Am I the trash (something in a crumbled or broken condition), or am I the treasure (a person esteemed as rare or precious)? What am I to me? To my parents? To my son? I could’ve lived my life independent, as is my nature, as I believed I would, but here he is, and I love him. Is this going to be the happily ever after, my prince I always dreamed about in my favorite Cinderella tale? Will I end up receiving what I dished out? As I prepare myself to join this prince in a new life together, dragging along my own trash and treasure, so many thoughts, memories, and scenarios come to mind,

And I wonder…