Telling your boss you think he's a fucking jackass is one example.
Getting married on the spur of the moment because you won someone's hand in a bet is another.
Around here, so is driving without a seatbelt.
And so is passing on a 40+ year traditional Thanksgiving dinner with your adoptive parents and close family friend, when your own child is away (visitation stipulation), and choosing to spend the holiday with your Birth Mother, a younger half-brother and his family and their long-time friends (who are like family in every way). In Maine. You drive 6.5 hours and 300+ miles straight through the foggiest of nights to be there. And you don't actually tell your parents what you're doing but casually serve up some fib / white lie that you've decided to spend the holiday with "old acting friends in the city." You know... since your kid is away and all... (and you know your parents can take care of themselves), etc, etc, etc.
I have no idea if I managed to get away with this because something tells me my father knows I was not, in fact, "in the city."
I wasn't: I was in Maine. Mt. Vernon, Maine to be exact.
And every bit of this weekend, starting with pulling out of my driveway with less than $50 in my pocket, arriving there well after 3AM Thanksgiving morning, and coming home by 9:15PM tonight was bliss. Pure. Deliberately consumed, luxurious, sweater and fireplace, sweet, homecoming bliss.
Maybe I will write more later, maybe I won't. But this weekend I gave Thanks every minute of every hour and will continue my gratitude until it becomes part of my core. My First (Birth) Mom is a remarkable - and not just because she had me; she is a gracious and thoughtful person who mothered three additional children; I am her eldest. She is a good friend and honors her friendships with her attention and love.
She is a clear example of living for yourself and doing what your heart says it must do rather than doing something for the almighty paycheck - she jokes about having to raise herself as her mother died when she was 16 or so; awful. And she is creative, full of ideas and would like to see me get away from "that office job" and into something where I can and will use my talents... she believes in me. Her support and love shows in her other children too: they're all out in the world doing very nicely and seem quite happy with the way things, in general, have turned out. I want to feel that way about my life, too, and I'm beginning to understand that my First Mom is doing that organically, naturally: she's nurturing in me what she can see I have. It's something I haven't really experienced before, at this level; that is not meant as a slight to my adoptive mother in any way.
She believes in me like only my child, best friend, and - on better days - I do. She sees what there is to use and she's guiding me, subtly, with suggestions and conversations that stir my head toward a place that uses "me" - the parts that are only used once or twice a year. Uncanny that she sees this so clearly.
So, my last Thanksgiving Prayer would align with my appreciation and endless gratitude for all these things: mothering and being mothered; creating and being gifted with creative abilities and talents; safe travel and new experiences, the courage to do so, and lastly, the good sense to absorb it all.
But I ask one thing for myself, as uncomfortable as it feels to ask for anything, ever: Please give me direction for I am without a rudder and have these wonderful sails and vast bodies of waters to discover - but I would like direction, please, a rudder and centerboard, too, to keep me headed in the right direction.
Tonight, I fall into my huge, high bed wrapped in the sweet blankets of this weekend. Cloaked in the knitting embraces from my 'new' family members, and taller from using listening to my soul when it said: "Go. Take Leave. Have courage and just go. You're a 44 year old grown woman. You're going to do things that piss people off: so what. They can deal with it... can YOU? I dare you: Go. Just be yourself and stop worrying."
I'll do it again. Watch me.