Greatest Expectations

I expected things to be different.

I was nearly four years old and I expected someone or (thing) was about to whisper eternal secrets in my ear or at least deposit answers to all of mankind's questions. I had felt a sense of having always been alive. I expected to have more answers at age four. I expected to discover that everyone felt the same way. I expected my parents knew we had been together before, somewhere. And some other time period.

I always remained aware of some sort of presence. Yet I wait for those secret answers.

I expected the violence would go away one day, only if the "if onlies" could be fulfilled. I expected that one day my father to settle down into a softer way of living, less abuse, less hitting, less screaming, less drinking. He went away. The violence went away.

I expected my family life to be something like "Leave it to Beaver" or "Father Knows Best." I was fooled by television.

Somewhere around age seven or eight, I expected my father to come home. And then there would be a normalcy that would gently heal the most exposed painful parts of my young self. He did not return. The family was different.

It became something else when my mother remarried.

There was a huge sense of loss throughout my entire life, especially as a child. There was even a larger sense of gain as I learned to love my new father, a rock, a dependable soul who paved an image of stability and togetherness. I learned a lot about relationships.

I had not expected to love my new father as much as I did.

I expected my future husband would be a lot like my father.

When I was nine, I couldn't wait to be ten so that I could enter into that mysterious double digit realm. Truly life was going to be bigger, more adult, less elusive. Ten was barely different from nine. So I waited. I waited for the mysteriousness to manifest.

Even as a teenager I expected to fall in love forever. "This will be different, it will be REAL love." So I made myself fall in love. It was temporary. There were Bills, Bobs, Joes, Johns, a Casey, a Brett, Toms, Franks and I think an Aldo.

I expected to find true love once, but it took a lot of tries before I found it. I expected to keep it.

I expected to always be youthful, like in my late teens and throughout my early thirties, flirting with and loving all sorts of mobile men and dreamlike aspirations.

I expected to always be youthful. I expected to always be thin, and eat what I liked and when I liked.

I expected to always be youthful, in the way of running and building and having all that boundless energy my teachers and later colleagues praised upon me.

I expected to always be youthful in the eyes of my spouse, in the hopes that he wouldn’t stray and find youthfulness elsewhere.

When I was utterly youthful, I expected everything to be handed to me.

I expected that forgiveness would have enter my vocabulary by now.

I expected my first marriage was going to be the end-all and it would save me from all heartache, and monetary worries, all struggles, all everything young women worry about. My first marriage lasted four years. The heartache got worse, the monetary worries multiplied, and struggles were the same.

I expected to fall in love with that husband.

I expected to be swept off my feet.

I expected to be generous.

I expected to have a family.

When I did have a family, I expected I would never yell at my children or spank them, I would be different.

I did not expect to be just like my mother.

I did not expect to say things my mother had once said.

I expected to always feel the ecstasy one feels when so deeply entranced in one’s art, that it is impossible to see the difference between the veiled and what is called “real.” I expected the ecstasy to be constant, everlasting.

I expected my faith to be unquestionable. Yet once in my life, I nearly asked why, and it nearly ended the questioning.

I felt exactly three moments of complete, undeniable spirit-filled ecstasy. My soul was overwhelmed by gifts of love and clear answers to my God-related questions.

I expected to always feel this way. Everyday.

I expected to be less angry.
I expected more encouragement.
I expected to regain what was lost, by now.
I expected to be taken care of.
I expected to be worrying less.
I expected to live longer.
I expected to be a great example for my children.
I expected to be less disorganized.
I expected to paint everyday.

I expected to sit on the veranda sipping tea and looking out at the ocean waves, my little girls in their sundresses dancing along the dandelions.

I expected forgiveness.
I expected to be less cautious, more adventurous.
I expected to travel, to see what this world had to offer.
I expected to be famous and known for something great.
I expected to have longs legs, almond-shaped eyes and a tiny waist like my Barbie doll.

I expected to strive for being great.

I am content being a mother. It is a service I wholeheartedly welcome into this life. I feel like I had waited forever for this completion of love.

I expected to keep, not lose my friends.
I did not expect that hearing my little girls sing silly songs would fill up my heart.

I expected to hear the eternal secrets.

I am aware of what could be called a guardian angel or so, it is always with me, it has helped me to save myself in the worst of times. I expected to hear a real voice talking to me, like when I was four years old.

I expected grace.

I did not expect that I would have gotten so many gifts this soon.

I expected the presences to be louder.
I now know they are loud enough.