Then We Bloom

How we become,

Amidst all opposing forces.

We,

Seeds,

Clenched in muddy fists.

Hoarded from whence we came.

Each plunged by the tip of a finger into murky, stifling darkness.

We,

Choked and trapped, now drenched.

Our insides writhing and expanding,

We break.

Our depths reaching outwards, blindly twisting and curling both downwards and up.

We, 

Stretching with aching desire for an unknown source.

We, 

Against all odds, watch as our bedfellows are plucked, devoured and wither.

Still we reach into our center and expand evermore.

We find light.

Pushing against the grave we have encountered. 

Once cement, now the clay we claw and ground in.

We find hope within the struggle and scream "I am here", as we poke through the tunnel we created. 

We find room to breathe, 

And we do.

We breathe deeply in unison. 

Then we bloom.

For blooming is what we were designed to do.

From bag to bag, 

We beget what will again follow.

Whispering as we fall,

"This is why, that why was it."

Whether for a day, or only an hour.

That we were.

**this was inspired by a painting, in the photograph, by Artist James Flux. 

The Wall of Winter

I haven't pushed myself to blog lately. Having gotten some major silence out of the way, my pen falls softly to the side. Not from a blockage, or censoring, or even holding back.

No.

It comes from a place of silence within the walls of my mind. A true, deep acceptance of what is, in this very moment. I have nothing to share.
My whole life, I have had a constant babbling. If I answered "nothing", to the question "what are you thinking?", it was a lie. Images and words, thoughts and pictures, have swirled together in a non-stop kaleidoscope since my earliest memories.
This new-found phenomenon of painting my head into silence is fantastic. It's become my newest addiction, and unlike most addictions with me, I don't see a future that kicks it.
 

I miss certain people, the ones who have moved on. I don't hear laughter over my fence when I sit and smoke. I can't walk down the street and sit in the presence of unfound royalty. I'd love to Grammy-slave my winter away, but that comes with the cost of missing my children. I have almost forgotten the excitement of checking my mail. These things have come to pass.

 

My minds eye sees nothing but colour on canvas.

This is when I hibernate.

So then, why blog?
Well, I'm blogging because this is very monumental for me. To have nothing worth saying is a 35 year road-mark. To be okay and accepting of what is, no tension, no guilt, no regrets. To watch those around me move on, and in no way feel angst or anxiety. To release what I've held so dearly without even a twinge of remorse. To spend hours upon hours with nothing on my mind but colour and stroke.

I'm challenging my reality. I'm in open debate with what peace and prosperity actually means. I'm allowing eternity to be right now, not tomorrow or next week, but this very second. And it's beautifully liberating.

Those who matter, come into my plane of vision. I light up when I get a message. I think of them when another layer of colour splashes onto my canvas. I pause to smile when something reminds me of them. I take time for a coffee, an email, a visit, a chat. I love my people. Those who do not, well....they just don't. They don't bother me, and I don't bother with them. No struggle, no anger or victimization going on. Just warm winter wishes and dismissal.

I believe many of my stories have ended. The guilt I've been carrying has finally reared it's head for the last time. I don't know for sure, but that is what I would like to believe any way. I am thankful for the quiet, and as much as I have hibernated in the past, I actually look forward to this one. I think this year, it will be a different kind. Maybe I will paint the walls of my den instead of pacing the floor. Maybe I will enjoy the slumber instead of gritting my teeth at my immobility. I sure hope so. All I know for sure is I am truly thankful for each and every minute.

 

A Failure To Communicate

Hmmm, I can't really explain what's going on lately. Scattered, absent-minded, mostly numb, floating from one thing to the next with no real focus or ambition. I don't think it's a bad thing for the most part...because out of it I have been creating, painting after painting pouring out of me like some kind of dam that has just broken. However, my writing has become disjointed, barely even sentence structures. Earlier today I wrote an entire page on the various ways to tell someone to go f*** their hat...not kidding. I ended it with "what we have here is a FAILURE TO COMMUNICATE"....what does that even mean? 

My last night journal entry was a conversation ... Quotation marks and all, that has never happened. 

I am not complaining at all. I can ignore all kinds of uncomfortable things, feelings, loss, grief. Back burner all of that baby! Why? Because I'm eyeball deep in creating! Ping pong between cleaning, helping, painting, photography, kids, errands, writing...stick in those treks to the great outdoors....and BAM....no loneliness, irritation, anxiety, depression. I should market this and sell it on eBay! 

Meanwhile, life carries on. I'm not nearly as clever as I think I am, and that's a fact. I sit and stare at a flower, propped up on my wall beside my dresser. I barely know the artist, and yet it's almost as if it was created for me. Painfully beautiful it is. Like its very existence begs to be stared at. And perhaps it is that way only for me. Who knows, I'm not a mind reader. I'm just thankful to bumble my way through another day, no matter what that looks like. 

So, back to creating. Because as much as I might wish to find my footing again, I refuse to resist even one iota of what ever this current phase is. Always forward, always now.

A Saran-wrapped Theory

Sometimes, a light is just a light. An idea is just an idea. A dream is just a dream.

I have known things at one time, to find them untrue later on.

Sticking my toe in a drain will not suck me into the sewer. That shadow tapping on my window isn't a rapist, it's a tree. Once, I scared myself silly by walking into the bathroom in the dark. Coming face to face with a stranger bent on killing me. A blood-curdling scream erupted from me at almost the same time I realized it was my reflection. Still, the pounding rush of blood in my ears muffled the sound of my nervous giggle, and I hit the lights to confirm my suspicions. For a second, I KNEW I was going to be killed by a bathroom-stranger.

I would like to say age has brought me wisdom. Silly fears and knee-jerk knowledge is a thing for campfire stories and inside jokes. But I'm pretty sure I would be lying.

Most often, I am caught off guard by the depth of my wrongness. The only thing age has brought, is the grace with which I accept it. I no longer try to avoid responsibility or explain away my err. I approach it with a wink-wink-nudge-nudge. 'Dja see that one? Got me good, it did' tee hee, once the sting has worn off that is.

I have a couple "ideas". Firstly, that "being in love" is like Saran Wrap. You stretch it out over the leftovers. It stays there, at the back of the fridge. The food goes mouldy, but you won't smell the stench until you pull it out and peel back that Saran Wrap. As long as it stays there, firmly over the food...you can stay in love. You don't have to know how much it stinks. 

Not that I think LOVE is like that, nope, but the term "but I love ..(whoever)..." 

Is the Saran Wrap, covering the stank. 

Which brings me to my second idea.

What if true balance accepts both love and fear. That all of the struggle with ego, lessons, teaching, learning, growth, and so on; are the train driving you to the tracks' pinnacle. That once you have arrived, you will realize it was all just part of the journey. The point was to travel, not reaching any purpose at all. 

Rejecting one for the other would be like stretching an elastic band until it snapped, and wondering why it wouldn't stretch any further. Reaching and climbing, ever higher. Finding that the top

was the bottom and you came full circle. 

Both ideas are the same. This toil to find a place to belong, being the place we created and accept. That we can never know what we don't know, but know enough to know what we do. Maybe reaching to the back of the fridge and peeling back that Saran sealed dish isn't the best plan if you can't deal with what's under it. To know that "pride cometh before the fall", and let the falling happen any way. 

However, sometimes a light is just a light. An idea is just an idea. A dream is just a dream. 

The Voice Went Quiet

As I sit, hunched over the painting I am creating, I am reminded that "I don't paint" 

This is something I have been saying and telling myself for years. 

It has been because, the ghost of a voice from my past has never quite quieted. The voice that told me I don't hold the brush right. My colour blends aren't smooth enough. There is no place in painting for expression. This voice has whispered in my ear for close to two decades.

I have known all along that the voice was wrong. It came from a limited-minded-control-freak who used me for her own agenda. Yet, still I carried her voice with me. 

Strange how we do that. 

I can convince myself of almost anything, yet without meaning to, I create a space of limitation and minimalistic thought. To achieve great glory in a box. 

So I painted. I painted with purpose, with vision. A gift for an admired friend who I know would appreciate something that money can't buy. But what happened was something else. 

That voice is gone. I can't hear her anymore. What I awoke to was a song that sang wake up. "Get up and create." 

So I did, and I am. 

Out of Commission

Slowly put down the cell phone and back away....
Ever have those moments?
I've had about two weeks of those moments. I have been completely out of commission. I play Bubble Witch Saga, Farm Heroes and avoid contact with other humans as much as I can.
Mouth shut, say as little as possible.

I've been battling some kind of virus or infection. Started as a common cold that spread and kicked out fever after fever. Boo-frickin-hoo.
I'm not blogging a pity-party.
I'm blogging an interesting aspect of my human psyche. I'm very whiny when sick. Everything bothers me. Smells come and go through the snot-bubbles, and they infuriate me. People's voices grind on my last nerve, and I literally bite my lip to avoid saying an 'un-take-backable' thing. Even the sound of my own voice can drive me bonkers. So I try to keep quiet, to myself, and away from situations with sharp objects too handy. I also avoid writing too much, which is why I keep my hands busy with mindless games. Things I write when I'm down, range from violently disturbing to nauseatingly melodramatic.
I get extremely tired, and along with that exhaustion comes emotional overdoses. I try not to read too much, especially emails from friends or deep thoughts. I'm apt to take something wrong and blow it all out of proportion.
Like drunken texts, I avoid texting anything beyond simple facts and requests, information or dates. Too much thought and I will likely write about the desire to eat the eyeballs out of the next snivelling turd to drop a fart in my general area. Or my unexplainable desire to drive a pencil through the knee of someone who makes me repeat myself.
These are not normally things that even bother me...much. But for some reason, when I am sick, it's like every nerve is set to high.
The weight of my own hair is bothersome.

Well, today is the most well I have felt in two weeks. So I'm excited to say I will be back to normal soon...whatever my normal is.
Why did I decide to share this.....?
Well, I figure everyone has their weaknesses. Some women struggle with PMS. Some pregnant chicks get all testy. Some guys have this mood cycle they struggle with. The list goes on, but my point is, I'm just embracing my "Out of Commission", and putting it out there. Some days just suck. I don't think it's negative to say "it's raining". I don't think it's complaining to admit something bothers you. So, I'm a real whiny snag when I'm sick....facts is facts. Bigger and brighter is in the future!

The Tub

The 'creak-creak-creak' of the chair as she rocks back and forth splits the night-chill like a razor blade on flesh. Her head bows forward and back, hinged at the hip. She is not in a rocking chair. You would not know that if you happened to walk by. She is moving with such rhythm that your mind would create one where it doesn't exist.
In between her broken speech, she alternates between vicious hauls on a cigarette and low, guttural moans. Like an animal caught in a trap that has given up wailing.
Her head is throbbing, pulsing like an oversized cyst, ready to burst.
Lighting another cigarette off the last, this is not the time for laughter, or even tears.
This is 'freaking out', or 'trippin'.
I call this 'being in the tub'.

For a moment, she is me, years ago. Before the burn-out. Before the numbness set in. Watching her is like watching myself. I want to grab my mid-twenties-self and scream, "look at yourself!" I want to tell myself to stop this before the shut down begins, before the illness takes hold.
But I don't.
I don't because of two things.
One, she is not me, and this is only a reflection.
Two, I would not be who I am today had I not gone through what I did.
So I shove this painful reminder to the back burner and refocus.

'creak-creak-creak'
"I just don't get it." She holds her head like holding back a sob that is on the edge of breaking the dam.
I don't get it either, but I don't say this.
Truth is, I know what she doesn't get. That's not the same as what I don't get.
I don't get why we do this to ourselves. We fight against our very nature to do the one thing we have no right to do.
It's so easy to tell ourselves that WE can't make our hearts do something. We can't force ourselves to love, or love in "that way". Yet we convince ourselves that someone else can or should.
If we are good enough, perfect enough, give in, give out, put up with...THEN, we will be worthy of THEIR love. And it has to be THEM. It HAS to be. Because WE love THEM so much, can't they see that........?
"You need to breathe." I remind her. It sounds stupid as I say it, but it's true.
Her 'trippin' is reaching a peak of anxiety proportions. She is muttering herself sick and in circles.

Some time ago, I lay naked in a bathtub. Eyes blurry from a throbbing head and day three of no sleep. Chewing the inside of my mouth, while muttering "I just want to sleep", over and over. HE had been out with HER. I knew this. I felt this.
I reached out and turned on the cold water, flicking the knob to shower. Emptying the bottle that sat beside me, I threw them back one at a time, gulping the icy sprinkle after each one.
"Seven, eight, nine, I'm fine, I'm fine."
Not because of that. Not that at all.
Just to stop the feeling. Just to stop the pain. Just to fall asleep and forget.

'creak-creak-creak'
On the porch with no rocking chair.
"Maybe it'll be okay." I tell her. I really mean this too. She fiddles with her phone and the creaks slow.
"It's not." She states matter-of-factly, "I just have a feeling."
Fair enough.
Deep breath.
"Fast forward to later." I suggest.
"I'm not gonna sleep tonight." She retorts.
"Okay then, fast forward to two or three days from now. You've always gotten through this!" I am adamant. In the tub, the future always seems so bleak. There is no solution, and there is no hope.
The reality is, however, that we get through it. Whatever "it" is, passes. We live to fight another day. We reach down and find what we need to make it. We survive, even if only as shells of ourselves.

In my mind I am walking, alone, it's three in the morning. I have been walking in the pouring rain for two hours. For some reason, in the freezing cold darkness, this was the only solution. If I had stayed I would have snapped, I was back in the tub. The rain has soaked through my jeans and hoodie and I have the only plastic on me wrapped firmly around my cell in hopes of its' survival. I can't take it out to call for help, or get someone, or it will be destroyed by the rain in seconds. By now, the freak-out has passed and all I can focus on is getting home. The tub makes the most illogical things the only option.

'creak-creak-creak'
As a shadow moves in the darkness, the creaking stops.
She straightens her back and the air becomes calm. Only our mutual shivering remains. This is my signal that the freak-out-time is over. I lean forward to finish my smoke. A yawn stretches out of me. As I rise, I say good-night. It doesn't matter to me that nothing was resolved. I will get up and do this again and again and again. Whatever it takes. For her, for anyone I love. No matter how tired I am. No matter what the reason.
I want those I love to know that I am there for them. Partly because that is what love means to me. Partly because a piece of me never left a Mississauga-cold-shower.
The night I went numb with no one to call was the night I let go.
Others are not there yet, and that's okay. There are places I haven't gone yet either.
They are still curled up, believing they can make themselves good enough or perfect enough to be loved.
But you can't Baby-doll.
You're already good enough.
You're already loved.
You just can't see that when you're in the tub.

Reaching

What falls between the cracks unnoticed.

Stricken by the forced left hand.

Scabbed and challenged, spine set solid.

Christening tears refuse to bend.

Hair curled blindly round a finger.

Mind long wandering, hollow eyed.

Lips licked thickly, tasteful leather stretched too thin.

Smell of litter long since sifted.

Smoke and ashes, dust and filth.

Shady here in lonely wondering, shaded by a tree stripped bare.

Tracks like smiles and look beyond them.

Add the love not here to find.

Arched in bended plastic glory.

Reaching out from under ground.

Long forgotten, words left wind blown.

Waiting, waiting, reaching, broken.

Found as trash and hoarded down.

Heaps of broken glass for hire.

This is known.

For this is known.

Abandoned.

Recycled.

Discarded.

Kept frozen.

Unfeeling.

Unfolded.

Unknown.

Reaching for the sun.

Footsteps caress a solace unseen.

This heap for the broken and home for unclean.

A heart limbo stricken, unclaimed to the side.

A soul locked by form and with pride.

Waiting, waiting, reaching, broken.

*this poem is inspired by my latest adventure into an abandoned house. 

I think we can become locked in a place where we wait to be found, instead of realizing we are not objects. I don't generally explain my poetry, but in this case I feel the desire to. If we allow our world to crumble around us and succumb to the will of others, we are dolls trapped by debris. We will be picked up or set down by the whim of those who play with us. We will be forgotten, destroyed, trapped by our inability to function without the guidance of our manipulator. 

The good news is, it doesn't have to be this way. We are not dolls in rotting hoarder-homes. We can choose to live and love without permission. We can choose to realize our value. We can if we want to. It's up to us.

I know both sides of this, and chose to write the poem based on my familiarity with those feelings. But that is no longer how I choose to live. I recognize it and feel great sympathy, however I know the heart-beat begins when the waiting stops. No one can make that happen for someone else, it all begins within. 

The Hallway

I wandered down the hallway of my mind.

On the walls hang faces of the fazes come to pass. Beyond each door a life time, locked by days I've left behind. Upon the floor lies petals of the dying, fallen flowers; all showers of the pieces of my heart.

I notice far away a door I've never seen before. I ask myself, "What hides within those walls?"

My steps stir up the petals and they travel up my legs. I feel my heart strings calling them back home.

Behind me there are footsteps, they echo down my hall. I turn to look and see that there is no one there at all. Feelings of a shadow cause me pause.

I taste a lip I've never parted.

Hands unknown prickle on my neck. 

Chilled by a breath that warms my chest and a whisper tickles my spine. 

"Who has come to my hall?" I linger to wonder.

I turn to the door I have never seen before. I move with conviction to reach for the knob. 

Each movement makes me stronger. The secret promise of wanting drives the will to peer inside.

Within the door a blinding light explodes to capture me. Drawn within, I take that step.

My future is upon me and I am ready.

Lunch for Game Players

I awoke this morning, and like the premature mid-cunnilingus endings, deflated and irritated I carried on with the day. Not at all interested in treading backwards, finger in spine. I'd rather find coital bliss in a sea of creation.

I'm in a tank, shortening my breath and curling up. Maybe if I'm really, really quiet, that snake of epic size won't smell me. Maybe I will live to poop another day instead of becoming the poop of my predator. It could happen.

I'm a self-aware pawn, waiting for that grubby-chubby-smart-guy hand to close around my frozen plastic form and move me in to play. My greatest hope is to be the last pawn standing. The one who sails across the board, one square at a time, to become the queen. We-hoo.

I'm a kite on a string, enjoying the cool, fall breeze. In predictable loops, I dance and play until the one pulling my string tugs too hard and I plummet to the ground. Nose crunched, tangled up and bent, I lie there waiting to be collected.

I've got a metaphor for every occasion.
 An illustration to illuminate the illusion of illustrious interactions that idiots with idiosyncrasies idolize.
A game that plays the players' game.
I'm walking the walk while watching the talk.
Like speech bubbles that warp their way out of a mouth and pop like over blown balloons, scattering letters on the ground.
Premature lunch pawned for kite-strings....see... I tied it all together. Yay me.
On stage, the drum-roll just ended, cue the tinned laughter.
Sit up in bed.
Snake strikes for lunch.
Pawn on the side-line.
Kite left to wilt.
Metaphor over, curtain descends.
Laughter falls silent.
Game over, the end.





In My Mind

In My Mind by ElizaBeth Lambert | Make Your Own Book

I'm pretty thrilled to finally have completed this project. With a book finally published and ready to sell, I have to admit I give all the credit to all those who supported, helped and encouraged me. Also the original concept long gone...this entire vision is so outside of me. Thank you, thank you and much love

Tussled

All that glass I've been holding falls to the ground.
It's shattering crunch is deafening, and I'm wringing my cut hands.
If I were to step, my feet are unsteady.
I'm more than ready.
For this I bleed.
Be sure what was worth this all makes a sound.

I placed all this faith and checked it daily.
Magic sprouted from these seeds.
I ate from the apple of no more needs.
I'm more than ready.
For this I bleed.
Head so shaky, heart don't fail me.

Here on a bus, heading to nowhere.
I wish that I could, but I just don't care.
The ringing I hear is from no noise at all.
I straighten my chin and sit up so tall.
I'm not going to say what I learned from this.
I'm biting my lip and I'll take what I miss.

Legs tucked in tight.
I'm not going to fight.
Finger in fist.
Here's what's been missed.

Tangled up, tussled and tossed to the side.
Strangled and choked out with nowhere to hide.
By me all the time.
It was me all this time.
A sabotaged ship shaded strangely by need.
To take it, to break it, to harvest and feed.
Not proving myself.
Not proving to you.
There's nothing worth proving, can't prove what you knew.

All sideways by wind and by choice.
Heard by the strangers.
Not held to a standard.
I'm more than ready,
For this I bleed.
I've known for a while that I just found my voice.

How could I know those words would be last?
I drop this glass, I've been holding it too long.
What brought to the table is found in the past?
I'm not writing a poem, I'm singing this song.
But it's all inside my head,
If there was a tune, it's already long dead.

I'm more than ready,
For this I bleed.
Tangled up, tussled and tossed to the side.
But that's alright now,
For this I bleed.

Choices

"Are you freaking kidding me with the hair?" I ask, staring idiotically at the mirror. 

"What? Isn't that what you wanted?" It sound more like "intdatchoowandid"

My mouth is forming a gaping "o" and my temples are throbbing like two cats in a sack.

"Yea...no!" I sputter.

"You no like?" She is smiling, so I have to assume there is some form of amusement with this question.

"No, I really no like." I feel somewhat guilty for mocking her, but can barely contain myself at this juncture.

"I do different for you?" Sounding like "eyesdewdifrenfoyew"

I rub my eyes. I am drawing in a deep breath, with which is to be the prelude to a long-winded English vocabulary lesson of the likes she will never forget, when I am suddenly struck with the words of my mother. Hair grows back.

"It'll grow back." I repeat out loud. Huge exhale. 

She gives me a hesitant smile, "you like? You okay?"

"Yea, it's fine." I'm convincing myself,  "it will grow back soon enough."

I shrug off the drape, locks of my hair cascade to the floor and I turn away with an internal cringe. Whatever.

As I pay with a sulky refusal to meet her eyes, I realize I'm being terribly selfish. It isn't her fault really. It's my own.

Had I not procrastinated to get my hair cut. Had I not been so insistant that I needed one no later then today. Had I not whipped in to a little shop with a shoddy "we take walkins" scribbled on cardboard in the window. Had I just not.... Well, then I wouldn't be in this pickle, wondering how many hats I can pull off for the next six to eight weeks of my life. 

Yet, here I am, bitter for paying and angry at a smiling, vibrant little girl. How rude. 

This is how it is. Choices we make become someone else's fault every day. I sit in a store where people complain about late fees. They bicker with me about a choice they made. They return items they damaged for refund, insisting they deserve their money back for something they clearly did. Me, in my indignant rage, see that as selfish. Yet am I any better? 

When I worked in restaurants and bars, I saw this day in day out. Ignorant, selfish people that created their own dramas in order to not pay or at the very least, excuse themself for not tipping. Yet am I any better?

I flip out a five dollar bill, meeting her eyes finally.

"For you," I say, "I'm sorry I was upset."

"You like hair? You okay?" She is clearly realizing that I have been livid. She takes the five gently and looks down at it.

"Yes, thank you." I smile as I say this.

It's true, even though it's not at all what I had hoped for when I asked for a trim.

"It's perfect. Have a good day."

"Oh thank you. You very pretty." She bows her head in my direction as I turn to leave. 

My choice. Call it my mistake, or lesson. Either way, it comes down to my choice. I choose to deep breathe and relax into the fact that good, bad or indifferent, I bring reality into my life. Results are not always as expected, but this is through no fault of others. I choose to see the actions of others as hurtful or a hindrance, when really only a few minutes of thought or understanding would cause me to see that I created this reality in one way or another. So often, people view my actions as hurtful or selfish, when that wasn't my intention at all, and I know this. So how can I in good conscience do that to others? 

Today I choose awareness. I choose peace and forgiveness. I say that today, and I mean it forever. 

I will likely slip up. Tempers flare. Tantrums on an exhausted day are inevitable. The program to see others as "doing to me" and I as "being wronged" is a hard one to shake. But baby steps forward. There are some truly hateful, selfish, sexist, ignorant people in this world (one day I will blog about true sexism at its' ugliest) For the most part, however, we are all just going about our daily business. With a little more acceptance and personal responsibility, I can change my world one person at a time. 

Perfect porcelain pig

There was this girl on a mission. Her one and only goal in life was to find the perfect porcelain pig. She hunted in all places that sold pretty things, night and day. 

One day, she stumbled across it. "Aha! I have found the perfect porcelain pig!" She shouted. 

For days she escorted her pig around, showing it off to friends and family. "My search wasn't in vain." She would tell them. "Look, see, I found my perfect porcelain pig!"

After a while, the pig began to sit on the shelf. At first, she would touch it and dust it everyday. But after a while, she looked at it less and less. 

One day, she noticed it was grey and fluffy, covered in dust.

"Oh my," she said, "I guess this was not my perfect porcelain pig after all."

She began searching again, determined that this time for sure, she would find her perfect porcelain pig.

At a flea market, she spotted a majestic white and blue porcelain pig. "Aha" she cried. "Finally, now this is my perfect porcelain pig!" Right away she bought it and took it around to family and friends. "See this one? Now THIS is my perfect porcelain pig!" She made sure to tell them all. 

After a while, the new perfect pig took it's spot beside the other, now tucked further to the back of the shelf. 

In time, the blue and white pig became dirty, and in a cleaning frenzy, she accidentally dropped and cracked the perfect porcelain pig. 

"Oh darn!" She cried. "This was not my perfect porcelain pig after all!" That very day she began the hunt for another perfect porcelain pig.

Over the years, she repeated this pattern.  Each pig would be perfect, though she showed it off to less and less people. Each pig would take it's place with the others. Each pig would become dusty, or dull, or cracked, or flawed.

One day, while moaning to her friend about the loss of yet another perfect porcelain pig, the friend looked at her and said.

"Have you ever noticed how each pig is perfect when you get it, yet in your care, it always somehow becomes not perfect any more?"

Shocked, she responded, quite hurt, "well if it WAS the perfect pig, it would STAY perfect. So clearly I have just not found the right one yet!"

The friend shook their head. "Of course it is, it always was. You neglected them and let them get dirty or fall off the shelf. You broke them, ignored them, and left them on their own."

Quite indignant, she stood and stomped her foot. "What kind of friend are you? If the perfect porcelain pig were truly perfect, it wouldn't matter what I did! Everybody knows that!" 

Because this was her very last friend, she softened a bit and said, "but it's okay that you dont know that. I know you are just trying to be helpful."

On with her search she continued. Eventually she no longer showed off her newest perfect pigs to anyone. She had to move to a bigger house because she had run out of shelf space. Still her perfect porcelain pigs piled up, no longer perfect at all.

On her death bed, she lay. Unable to search any longer, and quite lonely. A house full of shelves and shelves of not-so-perfect porcelain pigs. A life wasted searching for what was there all along.

I can Be Your Villain

I look down with a lump in my throat and a sinking, sick feeling in my gut. It doesn't really seem to matter how much I learn, how much I strive for peace, things still catch me sideways at times.
I tell myself to not take it personal, it probably has nothing to do with me. Rarely do they, and when I have been so foolish to assume in the past, it has brought me nothing but misery.
"It's not about me." I say out loud. This seems to soothe my vomit reflex for a minute.
As I tremble a bit, I tell myself it's the cold not my nerves, but I realize that my instincts are kicking in. Too many coincidences suggest that it is indeed about me, and the hurt of such a brutal attack with no purpose is taking root in my heart.
I want to ignore it. Need to ignore it. Yet I find my eyes scanning over the words once again, letting the entire gist of it register.
"Hah" I chuckle. Even though this is a forced and painful laugh, I do it any way. There is no way that this can be about me. So I remove the words from my line of vision and stare off at a tree. It's not about me. It's not about me. It can't possibly be about me.
And yet....
I scan through my memory logs. I am aware now that my knees are completely watery, so I sit down. It feels like a bruise is forming right between my eyes, and I rub my head.
"You are over thinking this." I tell myself. Myself is probably right. I do that way too much, and it seems that the more I try to NOT, the more I do.
"Even if it is about you...what difference does it make? Is it true? No...it's not who you are or what you're doing with your life, or even what your intentions have been. So even if it is...it matters not."
I tend to agree with these thoughts, however my gut has resumed churning and my head is throbbing.
"Stupid facebook" I mutter, "this is why I stayed away from it for so long."
I shift in my chair and lean my head back. Deep breath. It's only effecting you if you allow it to, the words of Iyanla Vanzant pop into my head. Nothing outside of you has the power to control you unless you let it. Right. Okay then. As if that helps at this moment! Grrrr.

I take a side-trip in my mind, back to the sail boat. I remember gripping the seat and holding on for dear life, absolutely convinced that the stupid boat was going to tip.
Yet it didn't. Not even close.
It took two people and tons of logic to convince me otherwise. After a half hour or so, I had settled in the comforting knowledge that no matter how tippy that sail boat was, it wasn't going down. By the end of the trip, I was enjoying myself.

Back to the present. Back to this overwhelming sense that not only am I being shut out, but also being thought of and portrayed as some kind of villain. Could be I'm just dead wrong. I actually don't really know. My instincts are generally reliable, but perhaps in this, they are just clouded with exhaustion, frustration and confusion.

I close my eyes and clear the voices and debates going on in my mind. "Shhhh, quiet time." I tell me. This makes me grin, genuinely. You should hear me sometimes, I crack myself up.
Only love, love, and more love. I got big love I'm sending out. Faith and love. Healing love, with a candy compassion coating. I forgive what I do not understand and breathe it out. Tossing it to the wind, sending it out on a barge...this big, big love. I accept what I cannot change, and in confusion, I accept that it is not mine to know right now. The walk-out door is always open, so no hate for those who use it. Only love to follow and faith that whatever comes next is as it should be.

My humanity is bare, I wear it like rags of riches balled up and covering the painful parts. My imperfections like raw diamonds on the flesh to draw blood. I can forgive others because I must forgive myself.
Yet, I am free of the need to drag others down with me. I bite my lip and refuse myself the glee of returning hurt for hurt. Did I deserve that? Yup, probably on some level or another, whether from now or from times gone by. Makes no difference. Those who see themselves as victims will always need a source of their misery...and I for that? Sure, why not.
My stomach has finally calmed down, and as I breathe past this one, I wonder what next. Nothing to do or say, nowhere to go.

Any one who thinks I am perfect, please take note. I battle my demons every single day, multiple times. Now and then they win for a spell, but I'm done with giving in. I get back up, suit up, and face off with them for victory. Some are kittens dressed as dragons, and others are dragons pretending to be friends. I never really know until time stands still. I forgive myself over and over, which is what makes it so easy for me to forgive others. It's like a muscle, and I flex it constantly. Those who want to make me a bad guy in their drama...it's okay. I don't much mind. Ya, it'll hurt for a minute or two, not gonna lie. In the end though, I win. You saved me the effort of having to do anything. You did all the work for me. One less dragon to slay.

Back on a boat that at one time, I assumed would be my horrific, drowning death. It wasn't. I was wrong, completely wrong.
I can live with being wrong. I can live with either being a villain or not.
I can even live with never finding out the truth.
I can live, because living is the only option I've got.
I would rather live laughing, loving, being, doing...then live in fear.

In passing thought

I don't have to know you, but I want to. All the things you say are like pieces of a puzzle. You drop one here, and the picture becomes more and more clear. 

You are a beautiful puzzle. 

The lines of sadness that surround you make you bittersweet. Your looks are like strings that weave in and out, creating a tapestry. With a smile that hides your misery, another string is drawn and woven. The look of recognition or twinkle on the edge of your eye.

You are a beautiful tapestry.

If you were a painting, I would stand back and try to understand your creation.

If you were a picture, it would be framed.

If you were a song, I would want to learn the words and sing you.

If you were a sculpture I'd rest my hand on you and close my eyes.

This is just in passing, I barely know your name.

I wonder for a second if you ever stopped to realize how transparent is your pain...

I would sit and listen, if only for a while. Just so I could understand just who you think you are. 

Then I would have to tell you how spectacular you really are.

Maybe you would smile, tell me I don't even know you. How true that would be, and yet....and yet.

Does a person need to know a work of art to just admire?

On with life we go, captured pictures of a time gone by. You won't even realize how tiny things matter to those you don't know. When all of the bad things in life tumble down, the miracle touch of a bumper car life brings you that close to seeing how amazing you are. Yet blinded by thoughts that are darkened with fear, it's gone and you never saw the miracle here.

My Chicken Dance

"You are a flat out crazy bitch"

I smile, "why thank you" I say. I mean it too. 

There is some kind of freedom that comes with letting your freak flag fly. I see that being "normal" or "average" and "fitting in" is really just a facade. No one living their authentic self will fit into the normal flow of society.

For example, my cousin is a girly-girl. Across the board. She screeches when things startle her. Giggles and can be flirtatious as a habit. She takes time to get ready to go out. Her feelings get hurt really easily and she will probably cry. She is her authentic self at all times, and embraces what I find amusing with a grin and a "you makin fun of me?". Hand on her hip, sparkling eyes and all, she gets that guy to put the car she's thinking of buying for her son up on the hoist, no charge! It's amazing to watch. 

When she's upset, things go crash bang boom, and she warns me, "I'm in a foul mood". I snicker a bit, because she's all flustered and bothered. It makes her face glow and her hair frames her face in such a pretty way. The kitchen light gives her a little halo, and I think to myself, so pretty when she's pissy. Within a second, she's laughing again and wrinkles her nose at me. Let your freak flag fly!

My sister comes to mind. She is a storm in a teacup. Loud, boisterous, full of life and energy. She can go from zero to one hundred in two seconds flat. You never have to wonder what is on her mind. She laughs hard, cries hard and lives all up in your face. There is no adventure she will not face and no rules she will not break to get what she wants when she wants it. Yet her softness and sensitivity is just there under the surface. Her need to be accepted and loved, and her fears of not being good enough are palpable. She is as real as they come, and doesn't even know it half the time.

Let your freak flag fly!

I know so many, real, magical, beautiful people. The ones who shine in their awesomeness without even knowing it. The ones who hide in their insecurities, and don't realize they are seen. The ones who sing when they think no one can hear them. The ones who do the kindest things when they think no one is looking. The ones who make an effort to get you laughing. 

I call this the chicken dance. Have you ever been at a party, and someone starts the chicken dance. Others think they look so goofy, but can't help themselves. Soon you have a room full of people flapping their arms and kicking their feet. Those who don't join in can't help but laugh...not AT those doing it, but with a pure joy of watching the spectacle. In those few minutes, everyone is connected in this crazy, silly show of unadulterated joy.

My chicken dance is not at all girly. I take two minutes to brush my hair and throw on somewhat matching clothes to hit the Hamptons. I don't think it much matters. I figure there is not much purpose to flirtation, and can't really pull it off with a straight face any way. I relate to people in a genuine, comical way. The more I embrace my freak flag, the more I realize I have a magic all my own. I don't mind being mistaken for a lesbian. I take cues from my sister and tell buddy at the bar if he's not careful I will rub my gay on him. While I'm holding up a table, watching others dance and grind on the floor, I find myself laughing. Not at, but from the pure joy of being there. When I finally decide to get on the floor, I find my own space and bust a move with pure abandon. 

Let your freak flag fly!

A Ship Named Persistence

Being raised in a society of instant gratification takes it's toll, whether you accept it or not. Somewhere along the line, I suddenly woke up realizing that even if I don't accept it, these beliefs are planted firmly in the guise of everyday life. 

I get frustrated waiting for an answer. I get irritated waiting in a line. I get confused by a delay in banking. I get testy over slow internet connections. All my electronics have "reset" buttons, and if they don't work the minute I want them to, I'm hitting that button! Travelling during rush hour is tedious. If you're in my way on the sidewalk, I'm going around you. 

Yet I would say I'm a patient person. In today's world, I probably am. However, reality check, instant gratification is so well ingrained that even the most patient of qualities come with limitations.

Over this last summer, I have been trying to sort out some personal dilemmas. At times, I thought I had the answers. Then something would come up and I would find myself back at square one, wondering why the answers were so elusive. There were moments of complete frustration. 

"Why can't I answer these questions? Why can't I make up my mind? What is the problem?" Figuratively stamping my foot, beating myself up for not having the right answers when I want them.

One of the greatest lessons I have learned in the past few months seem so simple, and yet it's been a hard-learned lesson for me. 

It's okay to be persistently patient. 

It's okay to not have all the answers right this minute. 

There is nothing wrong with not knowing, and nothing wrong with enjoying life as well. 

I am on a ship named persistence. I am sailing, sometimes tipped right over. I am being carried over the water, at times way off course, by a wind I cannot see but know is there. My ship is captained by others at times, but even in my greatest fear, I am always fine. I know that I will live to sail another day, and in that knowledge, I sit and take in the sun and sights. 

If anything, the biggest lesson I have learned it to be patient with myself. I don't need instant gratification as a belief any longer. I can let that go, and next time I'm waiting in line, I will close my eyes and see the water. Maybe there is a reason I am standing here waiting instead of out the door on my way home. Maybe I can set my phone aside, or turn off my computer instead of reaching for the reset button. There is too much life to live to lose even one second in impatience. 

Waiting for the Miracle

Every now and then, I think it's a good thing to stop and realize how far you've come.

In conversation, I suddenly realized that I have made some major progress, internally. 

Three years ago, I could never have considered myself doing and seeing some of the things I have done and seen this summer. I was so very lost in a world of anxiety and depression, and yet at the time I would have said I was coping okay.

I was medicated, overweight, terrorized by travel and dirt and had created a whole world of cats and television shows and doing what others wanted me to do.

In considering this, I also have a moment to wonder what the next three years will look like. Will I carry on this journey of freedoms? Will I think with my heart-brain instead of my egoic-brain? Will I travel this spiritual awakening all the way to the end? I sure hope so! 

Miracles big and small have wandered into my life. There was a time I was waiting for the miracle, and now I notice them every single day.

I am no longer seeking peace, for peace over flows me every time I take a minute to realize it's already there.

I am not always happy, and have found a soft sadness within myself. Yet at the same time, I am content and secure and steady in a joy that reminds me all is well. 

I have conquered some of my most major fears, and am still alive to talk about it. So that suggests to me all fears are possible to overcome. 

There are parts of myself that I have come to terms with, and in doing so, have realized that it's okay to be me. It's okay to be wrong, even about myself. I don't fear the lies I told myself. I don't even fear how they made or make me look to others. 

I have learned a new art, where I can be gently used. Taking things less personal, and opening up to be utilized on a tolerable level instead of martyring myself for a cause most beyond my means. 

In all things I am fine, safe and exactly where I need to be. This security makes it easier to accept the ups and downs.

I think I still have spin cycles. I am completely confident in knowing that I don't know it all. My limitations notify me that there is still a lot of wiggle room for growth.

But overall, I have to admit I have come so far. In doing so, I honour the journey, close that story, and carry on.

In a moment of gratitude, I take time to thank all the lives who have entered mine. I would like to send out love to those who have taught me, both in positives and negatives. They have equal value, and I recognize that. Thank you for helping me find myself, in whatever manner that was and is. Thank you for the support and the distance, both are valid and vital to my continued change. 

You are noticed, noted, important and loved. All of mine for yours. 

No matter how far we come, it can't be denied or overlooked how the lives of others brought us there. It's a good thing to notice, be humbled by and grateful for. Forgiving what we thought was ugly at the time by realizing that it serves so many purposes. To balance, to show contrast, to teach and to bless with better! Yes, never stop seeking. But at the same time, see with eyes of awe how many outside of us enrich just who we are. 

Do yourself a huge favour, and take a minute to see where you are. Consider where you have come from. If you are down, recognize how that could be launching you forward. If you are stuck, take a good look at where and why, what lesson are you learning from there? If you have made great progress, pat yourself on the back. Above all else, send out a little love to all the people, good and bad, in your life. I promise you, if you really do this, you will have a little smile tickle the corner of your mouth. For a moment or two, you will not be waiting for the miracle, it will be within you. 

Starting

Oh dark lit one, creating chasms of inky black trails in your wake. Swirling chaos with your stick and painting demons in the sky. Eyes as empty as the abyss you connect to and fingers grown strong from tearing. Gnash your razor teeth on the lives you rip asunder, watching as tears become oceans and wails create the symphony you sway to. 

Be silent now and watch as light weakens you. Stand still now as the sun leaves you limp and flaccid. Like blackened smoke you whisp away, becoming transparent and dispersing into nothing.

Oh enlightened one, to think with your heart-brain and travel spaces of ebony. Replacing each footstep with shimmering opal and lifting up what has been parted. Connecting from heart stem to mind hilt, healing the gaps and drying the dampened soul. Tread lightly on the frayed edges of eternity, returning stories and deeds to the keeper of records. Ever ready for the sunrise. Ever standing on feathers of downey white. 

Be still and know the journey has just begun. Be silent, and in awe watch humility take reign. We have only just started the network of unity. May we never tire, and find the source of all light unending. 

Thingamawhatsit

"Can you pass me the cutty thing?"

"The what?"

"You know, the thingamajigger cutter. Over there, black thingy with a sharp edge."

"Oh, this?"

"Yup, thanks."

"You got that doo-hickey over there?"

"The what?"

"The doo-hickey. You know, banger-ma-do"

"This?"

"Ya, thanks."

Could you imagine what a construction crew would sound like if they all talked woman-talk?

Watch two chicks cooking together, and you will know what I'm talking about.

Girls don't use technical terms. We just know. Words like "thing-a-ma-jig" "cutty cutty" " swirly thing" "holder-ma-do"... These are all legit words in our world. There are no technical terms like box-cutter, trowel, edge trimmer or hammer. No screw driver, it's a screwer-inner-thing. No tape measure, it's a stringy-counter-do-da. Forget this sanding block, it's a gritty-paper or smoother-outer-majig. 

C'mon guys...

Besides, ever seen a group of women bending over a stove with their butt crack hanging out? Didn't think so! 

So when I'm in the work crew, it's not a mudding palette, it's a flat-mud-holder-thingy...and I wave that with style!

Unity

"One day, she will ask him "am I pretty?" He will say no.

She will ask "do you want me?"

He will say no.

She will ask "should I stay?"

Again, he will answer no.

As she turns to leave, with tears in her eyes, he will grab hold of her. 

He will tell her she's not pretty, she's beautiful, that he doesn't want her, he needs her, and he doesn't want her to stay for him, but for her. He will whisper that she is all that makes him a whole, and by leaving, she is taking the heart he has given her."

Beset the mood, a cloudy day. Winds playing in gusty handfuls, with warmth enough to be relaxed, but cool enough to wrap a sweater ever tighter around.

Far off in the distance is a hazy figure. In profile, they are gazing out at something. Arm cocked, hand hovering above the eyes, as if straining to see something. 

The wind pushes you forward, though you are hesitant to break the concentration of this stranger. 

As you watch, they drop their arm and hunker down to write something in a notebook they drew from their back pocket. Intrigued, you watch as their pencil flies over the page, and you wonder what they could possibly be doing so intently.

As you get closer, you can tell that they are not writing, but drawing. 

Hesitantly, you walk close enough to take in the details of this stranger, and at once you feel as if you might know them. Yet you can't quite place who it is.

The stranger looks at you and smiles.

"Hello" you say.

They stand to face you. From the notebook they pull out a page, and reach out to hand it to you.

"I have been waiting for you." The stranger says.

On the page you now hold is a perfectly detailed sketch of your face. 

"How did you...." As you begin to speak, you have perfect clarity.

I have known you all along. In distance we have waited upon eachother. In passing we have recognized eachother. Time only brings us to this point for the magical meeting of what our souls have already decided. All confusion is silenced. All questions answered. For you are not of one, but two. In separation, you must find the path to unity, and in unity, the path to separation is but lessons learned. Be whole unto yourself and know that all you seek is waiting for you.

Come On In

Swiftly falls the twisted reason, forced unseen from sleet to hail.

Split-tongued hiss to summon season, ridged with jagged rusted nail.

First the Autumn hushed and heaving, lilting thusly hedge turned brown.

Next with wintry ice still leaving, springing from eternal wells.

Licked from entry way to exit, neither stifling nor in vain.

Taste of evermore in summer, shut to fingers deep in pain. 

Still in whisper, clasped in coatis, shudder, shiver, not quite there. 

Enter only once in longing, free to leave and stripped now bare. 

Amidst the racket of my hammer, come on in sir, if you dare.

Just Step Off

I am standing on a platform high above rushing water that is terribly shallow and huge rocks jutting out.

"You're okay to go." This pretty girl who has just completed an eight point check tells me.

I look at her in disbelief. You've got to be kidding me. A wire, some straps and a clippy thing are what will carry me? As if.

"Just step off." She points to where the platform ends.

Hah, I find myself shaking inside and I take a couple quick breaths. 

Alright then.

With a body bent on going backwards, I force myself forwards. Holding on to the strap, as if that might help somehow, I step, step, jump.

Eyes wide open, I am soaring across. 

I have lived contained, safe, for a very long time. I calculate risk and avoid adrenaline. These are things too big for me. And yet here I am, dangling on a wire over rocks and water, flying with my heart racing and my throat gasping for air. 

My helmet, I'm sure, is simply to keep the brain intact when I plummet to my watermelon death. Wouldn't want the tourists to see what's in there!

Today, I can honestly and proudly say I am not the same. I have faith that pushes beyond the boundaries of a safety net. I have trust that even in fear, I can overcome it. I have the courage to push my body to the breaking point, and go a little further. I have bruises that I am comfortable with. I will move slowly, but with the confidence that says "I will do it again, and again, and then some more!" 

I believe that it is possible, and I believe I can do anything I choose, no matter how messy or scary or hard. 

I have faith, not only in myself, but in the experiences and journeys that lie ahead. For I am the creator of my own possibilities. Yet those possibilities are beyond my control, all I need do is step off the platform. 

In My Cave

I actually don't have much to say these days...

The storm inside has subsided, and I find myself curled up in my cave with the great bear. It is quiet and peaceful in there. 

I hear things around me, and my body goes through the natural stages of daily movement. When someone asks how I am, I reply "fine", and it's true. I am fine. I am peaceful and unrocked by what goes on outside of me.

I wonder from time to time what event might come along to dislodge this sense of tranquility, but I do not dwell on it. I recognize the question as valid and dismiss it.

Misunderstandings are just that, and they do not cause a rise in my reactionary reflexes. Instead I sit and ponder for a second if I should do or say anything to clear them up. Some I have decided there is no point, that is an opinion or reaction outside of me, and it is not my job to put in effort to clear it. Others I simply say, "how did you get that from what I said?" Because it speaks to who they are, not me.

I don't exactly know how I got to this place. Was it the great grief and turmoil? Was it the act of staying with the hurt all the way through? Was it my refusal to medicate and deny? Was it the cleansing ceremony? I'm not sure, maybe it was all of the above. 

Whatever it was, I am thankful. I say my daily affirmation with true belief now, and write in my journal the things I am thankful for. I am truly blessed, my cup runneth over.

"Go where You'd have me go. Do what You'd have me do. Say what You'd have me say, to whom. In all things, guide me." 

Me and my Bear

I, without direction, lost amidst this seperation. I am here, an outsider. Not that fitting is a thing for me, distraction must and ever be, contained and I not one.

I hear this, I feel this, I am aware.

Within my cave I curl into my bear. 

"Show me." I whisper, and she will oblige. To be comfortably within and not of one.

So, I, be out and looking in on glass houses and us and them.

Not I, say we, my bear and me. For all is inclusive and unity prevails.

Of family, bear whispers, we choose and dismiss. Of patterns created we see what we miss. So on we weave gleefully oblivious, of what we have seen and we share.

I close my eyes to it. I don't want of it. I can deny and with eyes closed I do.

Open them, bear whispers, see that you're there too. A demon to them and to them just a ghost. Not nearly quite far enough, but come in. 

Do unto others as they'd have you do. Give of yourself and you pay. Pennies not good enough, diamonds too rough. Seal your mouth, open wide and come up just for air. 

Just now fold under, my bear and myself. Breathing not quite enough stolen and where. I'm only here but not welcome in there. To my cave with just me and my bear.

On Letting Go

I sit on a stoney beach, legs tucked sideways, pebbles digging into my legs.

Within the circle, with fire, water, earth and wind, asking for calmness to subside my sickened stomach. I crave a cigarette, but look down at the stack of neatly written letters in my lap. 

I ask my mind to calm, so I can visualize this experience and breathe in every nuance. I exhale agitation and nervousness. Inhale peace and acceptance.

Do I care at this moment that who I am is being challenged?

No, I don't think I really do, so I sit with my fears and hurt and let the salty water fill my senses. 

The first letter I burn, I visualize their face within the flames, and snip, my imaginary scissors cut our tie.

I patiently allow myself to feel this void.

As I speak the second name, I feel my tension turn into tiny tears that blur my vision. 

"I release you with lo...."

My nose is running and eyes watering quite out of control.

I remind myself to stay present.

"But I don't want to let you go." Is the devil on my shoulder. I think I might be sick.

I dig deep, willing myself to feel this, every part of what this is.

One after another, some in groups, others solo, my letters catch flame and burn up into nothing but ash.

I finally make it to the last one, and I am clinging. This one is an after-thought. This one hurt. This letter I only wrote a few short hours ago, and a little heart is drawn by the name it holds. 

My chest feels like a sucking wound and my nose has already been wiped on my knee a few times, so I discover a new wiping location.

Deep breathe, I can do this. 

Amidst the ashes of all the others, I lay the letter down. I am crushed, devastated and barely functioning. If I had to move for any reason, I am sure my knees would buckle and I would be out of luck. Fingers crossed, no sudden tsunami.

As I say the name, an then the words to follow, my shoulder devil is screaming no, no, no! What kind of fool am I? Can I take it back?

Flames devour the name, and the little drawn heart. With a deep breath, I am done. 

The moments that follow are a calm collection of thanks. Thank you for not backing down. Thank you for staying present. Thank you for releasing these ties. I am not dead, and as the experience settles, I realize my hollowness is slowly evaporating.

I live a state of hollowness, but I don't have to any more. All of these things that made me feel small, invisible, useless, dehumanized, stupid for wanting, thinking or being....they are lost in ash. Yes I loved each and every name attached to those letters. I will not love them any less. 

The act created this space that says "I will not live by your standards, or accept being your leftovers" 

I am indeed my own person, with my own dreams and thoughts, hopes and fears. I know that others know this, I'm not an idiot...generally...but this is my signal to be done.

I wrote a letter to my future husband, and even though I forgot to mention that I would prefer he be straight...I covered all the bases. 

So back to the beach, as I exit the safety of that space, and face the inevitable ups and downs life has in store for me: 

I feel lighter. Safer. Calmer.

I still have leaky eyes, after I wash the soot from my arms. But I think that slow bleed is one of patient acceptance. The storm in my belly has died, and I can swallow without a lump in the way.

One step closer to being my authentic self. Baby steps, but still moving.

K Bye Love You

I look up and smile. 

My hands are covered in flour and and grease, so I give him a quick wave. "Hey bud, how was your day?" I call out.

My son, his curls all sticking this way and that, red t-shirt hanging out of his jeans slides next to me in front of the sink. Like instinct, he reaches out and turns the hot water tap on for me. 

"It was a day mum, whatcha makin?"

My son towers over me. With a broad chest and scruffy chin, it is hard for me to imagine he was once the tiny bundle in my arms. 

"Biscuits." I answer him. He grins and makes a chuck-chuck noise, signalling his approval.

"How was school?" 

"Alright. Got 98 on my test...."

"...as usual" I finished for him. We grin at eachother.

"Anything for me to do?" He asks.

"Not really, you can take the garbage out later." Is my reply.

"K-bye-love-you" he says as he leaves the kitchen.

"Love you" I yell out to a slamming door.

I look up. I realize these times are not going to last forever. From the toddler, jutting his chin out at me in defiance. To this amazingly funny, talented, brilliantly gifted man. I have watched in one fashion or another, the making of a human life. 

I have four that I brought into the world. Through struggles, bad choices, laughter, tears, boo-boos, heart breaks and so much more, I have played a major role in the formation of life. And yet it is so much bigger then me. 

I have no control over who will hurt my boy, what situations he will find himself in or even how his adulthood will unfold. I can't protect him from the cruelty of others or even his own poor judgement.

All I can do is spend those moments with him shaping his view on the world, letting him know he is loved without question.

I am the kind of mother that tells my second son, after he was caught stealing, that I will visit him in jail. I won't bail him out...but I will still love him and visit him and help him get back on his feet.

I'm the kind that sits on the end of my boys bed and listens while he pours his heart out about a girl that is spreading rumours about him. I ask him "is what she saying true?" When his answer is no, I give him a hug and tell him girls suck. Just keep being you and life will prove she's wrong.

My mothering covers religion, telling them to find out for themself. Ask questions, and believe what you know to be true. Politics, they are all lies, turn off the media and do the best you can with your knowledge.

Modern medicine, question narcotics and choose natural remedies over poison every time.

Sex, be careful and don't make me a gramma with a hood rat. If you lay down and make a baby, you'd best be prepared to care for it because no son of mine is going to be a dead beat.

And life....you can do it, be it, live it. Never let a fear stop you. Never let a no cripple you. Laugh loudly, joke freely and love with all your might.

Do I know how my children will face life?

No I don't....

But I know that I will be there cheering them on, wiping their tears and listening to their troubles. No matter what. No matter why. No matter when.

I look up. My boy wobbles across the floor, taking his first proud steps. He beams at me with that "look what I can do" face. I open my arms wide to him and say "come to mummy", and with determination he stumbled forward and launches into my embrace. 

"I'm so proud of you" I tell him and kiss his dirty-blonde-baby-soft curls. 

"Ya" he says, wiping his nose on my shirt.

As he climbs back down to try again, I release him. 

"K-bye-love-you" I say.

Sounds and Sights

The sound of glass hitting the pavement and splintering off in a cascade of shards, echoing down the empty street.

A bird flopping on the ground, awkwardly trying to find her balance with only one wing. Struggling against nature and confusion in a horrific dance.

The cataclysmic crunch of metal on metal, twisting and screaming as it smashes together, majestically wrenching and reforming at the point of impact.

The blind stumble through a strange room in the dark. Hand extended only to step on a block and slam a knee into the corner table, followed by the crunch of a stubbed toe.

What sound does confusion make?

To what sound does a heart break?

What does loss look like?

What form is created by grief?

Maybe nothing at all. A sandal long forgotten on a bench. 

Speed bumps

There at these bumps in the road that come along. Speed bumps, that make you slow right down, pumping the brakes. While you are going over them, you wonder, when I'm back on the road will it be the same? What will be different? Am I wasting my time? And yet, once back on your way, you realize it was only just a little bump after all.

So much of what we do is so caught up in missed moments. We are so focused on the destination, what comes next, and all that surrounds the journey, that we miss the subtle beauty of right now. 

I figure speed bumps are just that, a reminder to slow down. A reminder to breathe easy. A sign that says "hey, right now is what is most important". 

So much is missed because of our unwavering focus on what's next. Those moments caught in embrace, the setting sun, the hints dropped by the shore or whispered in the dark...all missed because the noise in our head, or the thoughts of what next drown them all out. Now and then those chances are the missed ones that will never come back. Sometimes they are only just a warning, that tell us to be more mindful next time. Yet we will never know until we notice that they were ever there, or that we even missed them. And yet always, these things are the speed bumps we go over and continue on our way. It's always up to us whether we pay any attention or whether we simply carry on our way, cursing the bump for slowing us down. 

Hear Me Roar

I am most often fearful. This is a truth. I am fearful of many many things...too many to actually be reasonable.
Some of these fears are easy to recognize, and I have even conquered some. Things like spiders, dirty floors, drowning, cobwebs and getting into a car accident, I have mostly kicked. They are easy fears to admit to, and easy fears to over come.

However, there are many fears that get me all twisted inside and out. These are the ones I have been trying hard to face and stay with. I think of them as walls, and instead of running from the wall, or letting the wall push me...I picture myself facing the wall and pushing through it. Probably not the best description, but it works for me.

Number one on the list is the fear of fear itself. Crazy I know, but thems be the facts. I am afraid of being afraid, or more to the point, I am afraid that the fear will be bigger than I can handle.
I am afraid of admitting my fears. Scared that by speaking of them, it might give them life. Knock on wood.

I'm not going to list all my fears, that'd be lame. Instead, I am going to speak to and of it.
Switching gears...this is another truth:

I am a true warrior. A fighter, both fair and unfair, in body and in spirit. I refuse to become silent and give in. I refuse to go backwards, no matter the cost. Only forwards, even if only by faith at times.
Every time I fall, and I do and will, I get back up. Scars heal. Time passes.
I will not back down, I will not choke or become stagnant. Even in my cave, licking my wounds. Or under my willow tree in thought, I am only gathering strength to carry on another day.
I think of a lion, a sword, a bear. This is who I am when I need to be.

A friend of mine once said I was a strong person, and at the time I disagreed. However, since then I have changed my tune. Just because I don't feel like I'm strong doesn't mean I'm not. When I give my word, it is in stone. When I fall down, I get back up. When I slip up, I fix it.
Even in my darkest hours and my weakest moments, I am aware of the fact that I will rise again and again until I fall dead.

One of my biggest challenges at this juncture is accepting that strong or not, fearful or not, people are people and I am who I am. I can't wave a magic wand or wish my fears away. One by one, I have to face off with them and be victorious.

To quote Fiona Apple- "If there was a better way to go then it would find me. I can't help the road just rolls out behind me. Be kind to me, or treat me mean. I'll make the most of it, I'm an extraordinary machine."

I have no good way to end this blog. One of my many fears is the exposure of my personal sketches, and yet here are two. I have also been using them on Facebook...why? Because it is a fear that I can face. It is one that I can conquer, one sketch at a time. My son David would say-"nailed it"...and I say all the time currently-"so worth it".....
Love me or hate me, this is me, fears and all. I will tell you the truth, whether you like it or not, and when I'm choking on my terror of your disdain...know that I am in that moment battling a fear, and winning.

Under the Willow

Under the willow to wait while I watch. Wondering whispers blow wind while in thought.

 

I am a true believer that all things have reason, all things are a lesson. Good or bad, even indifferent...they all have purpose. Most often it takes a lot of time and reflection to truly come to terms with what that lesson might be. 

The weeping willow has always signified deep reflection and contemplation for me. It is the tree I sit by to try and come to terms with perplexing situations, both in literal and figurative worlds.

I often think there is someone sitting there with me, but turn to find I am indeed alone. I have sketched pictures in the past of someone there, but they are just sketches, and this is real life.

This is probably better, since true acceptance comes when sitting in solitude, or so it seems.

There are times when the sun sets on a hope, and the sadness that comes with it can be overwhelming. Yet instead of hiding or climbing back into my box, I am falling from the limbs of my tree in faith. Faith that whatever comes next is what is supposed to. Faith that I will find the lessons well learned. Faith that this is all part of my journey and that I will land softly amongst the roots of my willow. 

I imagine that whatever comes after sitting by my tree is worthwhile. I imagine the whole thing is worthwhile, that even after solitude, I might look up and see a smiling face. I might run down the hillside to a waiting field to dance in. I might laugh and realize that those silent, sad moments only made what comes next so much more valuable. That the contrast is what gives true worth to each moment. 

I am sharing this hope with you, whoever you may be. I am sharing this deeply contemplative place, this eternally safe and precious place. This place to lay down the grief and burdens. It is yours to use or to dismiss as you see fit. 

All you need do is look up the hill from where you are, notice the large weeping willow. Walk to it and sit down, resting your weary body against her sturdy bark. Let the leaves of the willow weep for you, as they lay heavy on the bowing branches. If you must, climb up to the top. Take a deep breath, close your eyes and fall. 

Demise

Graceful demise, be you ever so near.

End what is questionable, end what is dear.

Place your soft pillow upon my weak face. Lean on it willingly, firmly and villianly. Hold on until I am gone from this place.

Graceful demise, watch as fear melts away. Burn up these walls and observe puffs of grey. 

Catch me on fire, trap my screams in your fist. Dry out my lips and so softly, compassionately, flaming and passionately, see through my eyes all I've missed.

Demise be my reason and take all the blame. 

Let me walk eagerly forward in vain.

Show me humanity, vanity gone. Tip me off mountains and drown me in fountains, extend me out half way and lock me in dungeons. 

Brave my side dragon slaying. Chain me to beds laying, sideways on top and with rusty padlocks, show me joy within misery. 

Pluck my eyes out and then sing with me voiceless. Move me in monuments only to homelessness. 

Take what's been given to hand it all back. Tie up a river and throw it in sack.

Tell me demise, when we're done.

I am not death-borne, not close to the razor. I am not listless, or with an eraser; trying to blot from me methods for living.

No, I'm forgiven and peaceful forgiving. 

Drifting from here and there, caring without a care. Challenging questions and fearfully blessing, what I just don't know, or can't seem to show.

Pinning my life to all hope, not on strife.

Yet knowingly, gracefully, peacefully, jaggedly, meeting demise like my wife. 

Married to mayhem and now in the act, of signing those papers to break that old pact. Knowing there's so much more better in fact, that demise to my fears I impact.

Graceful demise, now indeed hold my hand. Tell me your plan so I might once understand; how the jagged edge slices to cut out what's wrong, helping me balance and making me strong. 

Choose this long journey to shape me with flame. Strip off my weakness and take all the blame. For now I walk backwards, not knowing my way. Yet forwards to choices that remain the same.

All that I am take me here by this fall, shape in my image who I can't recall. 

Strike me with force and ignite me with wrath, that I tremble for mercy in this aftermath. 

Now that I'm willingly, humbly and chillingly, tussled and tousled and trampled and skillfully, laying the future with only your path.

This is for You

This is for you, you know who you are. The things that you do are important. Every movement, noticed or not, are stitched in the logs of infinity.

At this very moment, wherever you are, what you think is happening isn't. I've snatched you away, and our minds are locked in. 

Infinity isn't these words, or the time that stretches between them. As you write this, I read it. As I think it, you see it. We are reading and writing as one, right here, right now. 

Know this.

The thougts that you carry create what comes next. You already know how it's ending. Go back to the start, where the birds are flying. 

In this eternal loop, we are captured. No beginning, never ending. So irrelevant, this script. You say I say we say...pointless. 

I understand. You know. 

That's just the facts.

So think, it will be.

Say, it is so.

Do, and it's done.

This is awareness.

But you know that already...right?

Put down the thought, and words disappear, just as they are collected.

My Mr. Wilson

I would name you if I could, but I'd rather admire, all the things that you should be but aren't are. 

Like slime that emerges, and vomit that purges. A bug I would swat, but far too amusing. Oh irritant rant and rave, I've long tuned you out.

I realize you are still talking, can't you see I'm thinking instead? Clearly not. 

Is it bad that I'm wondering what it would be like to shove toothpicks in your eyes.... Hopefully I didn't say that out loud.

Be thankful I aced the self control section of higher learning. If I could kick myself I would. Instead the steady drone of your beehive voice is slowly causing an allergic reaction. I'm actually praying at this moment that you would get hit by a Mac truck...even if that means having it plow through this room to get you.

I don't hate, that's too much effort for you. Rather I sneer in your general direction. 

Sigh.

People are so exhausting at times. Like chainsaws on metal. Like hammers on tin. Like smoke that makes your eyes water. Like lemon juice on paper cuts.

Speaking of paper cuts.... 

I wonder if your voice is causing internal ear drum leakage. Interesting thought as my brain is clearly hemmoraging at this very moment. I feel dumber for hearing you, even though I'm not listening. It's like the very tone itself has the power to stupify. I believe I might even be losing the ability to spehl.

I talk this way and people think it's funny. It's tiring because it's true. I say these things out loud now and then, but these thoughts run through my mind. Stupid drivers, crap commercials, idiots that can't make coffee right, propaganda, politics, religious extremists, sermonizing servitude socialites in their comfy high-end social clubs. Save the whales, save the dolphins, save the itty bitty seals with their big brown eyes. Find the cure that's already been found. Throw gardeners in jail and enslave humanity, debt increase, sanity decrease, white issues, fat issues, black issues, gay issues, hetero-what ?issues. Over sexed, under sexed, sexist, rapists, penalty based debt. Genocide, herbicide, homicide, suicide, inside the brain. Herpaghonasyphlaids. Prostatots, prostitutes, windmills, sawmills, save the forest food drives. Good technology, bad technology, too much stupidity. Recycle this and shove that.... It's all just napalm. 

Why can't we just breathe? Turn off the lying media. Turn off the dis-ease. Turn off the kill our planet. Turn off the wicked bad mural going up in town. Turn off the too much sex. Turn of the fake love, fake friends, fake smiles. Turn it all off and be gone with ya. And you, with all your opinions...shut it. How about I shove this cell phone down your throat til you're crapping out text messages. 

There is no right solution without awareness. There is no money solution, race solution, do-this-and-you'll-find-salvation. There is no government willing to do what it takes to give people back their right to be. No conversation will resolve the issues. 

Put down your script and walk off the stage. 

Unshackle yourself. Unshackle your children. 

Drop the rule book. 

Stop drama.

Live your own being.

Spread your own truth.

Connect with what is real.

Be community without judgement.

Heal naturally. 

Create constantly.

Be one, be many. 

And please, please, all these crazy attempts to sound like you know what you're talking about, live before you preach. Love before you judge. Pave your street with good enough and make your bed with been there. While you're out there, busy creating your reality, maybe your opinions will turn into making a change.