It's Complex

I'm standing on the edge of a lush forest. The smell of evergreen and rotting leaf, pleasant and warm, combining with the fresh breeze off of water. To my left is a pinking sky with air-brushed cloud. To my right the edge of a cliff cuts away to the yawning lake of ice blue. 

I press my bare toes into the satiny moss that covers the stone beneath me.

In this gloriously calm setting I stare into my dream. 

The dream in which all of these years makes sense. The dream in which a thousand tiny glass tears have formed a brand new heart. The dream that says

"It's okay, you got this baby-doll", and that is so much truth it is funny and not sad.

Those of you who have been travelling this journey with me, I am opening up about one of my deepest and darkest places.

"It is better to give than to receive" nailed it...

However, I would reword that to be: "it is easier to give than to receive." ...because it is for me.

In some sort of warped, martyristic way... I have been the giver of. Giver of what? 

Whatever.

Giver of me.

Giver of things.

Half-hearted, whole-hearted...no matter. Smack a bow on that shit and call it my gift to anyone, no one, you....

So stinking happy for everyone else. 

I'll give you a smile, a hug, my love, my adoration and support. Take it dammit...

The eternal spot of "whatever you need to make you feel better."

The dumbest part is it's genuine.

I actually super care unconditionally and wither when I feel like I've let someone down or hurt them.

But to recieve that....

I have serious doubts and apprehension. I assume there is a catch, an agenda. I can explain it away like flicking a bug off my shirt.

I assume I have no valid importance in your life beyond what I can provide you. 

Strangely enough, it's not even an inferiority thing. It's completely logical on every level. I have proof to quantify this opinion and years of baggage to back it up. 

When I let that go...

Well, I've come to this place.

Where I don't know whether to laugh or to cry because it's all just...so...pathetic.

Like...seriously?

"Give me a break," I say to self..."get real. You, my dear, have a wicked bad layered inferiority complex. Stop denying it and deal."

So, I'm dealing. The cards have been stacking up, and I look at the hearts and spades. Nodding to myself, I admit that mentally I am quite aware of my worth. It's all there.

No purpose but to be, for being is enough.

Yet diamonds are sharp, laying compressed beneath the stone of proof and delivery. 

I can trust....trust that I won't last. Trust that you will eventually betray me. Trust that the calls will stop or someone out there is better for you. Trust that when I need you the very most, that is when you won't show up. 

And I know I will be happy for you, because well, that's just how I am.

Or am I?

Probably not...but I will be eventually, that's a guarantee.

I return to my dream...this dream a visualization of its all gonna be okay sugar-booger. Wipe those salty tears and plop your butt down. Stop wondering who or how or making excuses, and simply accept that you are enough, valid, and worthwhile. Everything is gonna be okay.

It's okay to give, I probably always will. 

But the way in which that manifests is changing, day by day, card by card. 

All those things I know to be true, well, they dangle on a dream that is taking over what is...even tho they will never change what was.

This has been, by far, the hardest and most doubted blog I have shared...in that way, I know another dragon has been slain. Thank you...

Namaste

Scar Tissue

"Don't pick scabs, it'll leave a scar."
I remember being told this so many times as a child. But they itch, and so I would scratch. Human nature I suppose. I recall the day I put my tooth through my lip, Gramma shaking her head; "girl," she said to my mum, "that child is going to have a scar." She was right. At this very moment I trace the protruding line with my tongue and chuckle.
My first baby left no stretch marks, the second only a couple lines running vertically down the sides of my belly. Sort of flattering in the right light. Numbers three and four literally destroyed any hopes of ever being comfortably viewed in a bikini. There is nothing I would rather do than never allow my horrifically torn up abdomen to ever be seen ever in ever. It makes me cringe. Not to mention the horror show of my left leg.
These are superficial. Scars I can see, look at, observe.
Some scars are much, much deeper.

The words or actions that can't be taken back, and no matter how much forgiving and letting go happens, they are there.
My sister Jessica, stopped wearing shorts. All summer long she would only be seen in long skirts and jeans. Why? Because of an off-hand remark made in jest about her knees.
I held on to a scarf, brought to me from England. Why? Because the memory of being left on my birthday by someone who went to a place that I've always dreamed of going and I thought should have cared, was a scar I enjoyed revisiting.
I once saw a microwave explode, I'm still terrified of them.

Some scars build up over time. The ones that cover places in the heart. Where I was abandoned or not quite good enough. Where I rolled over and cried alone with someone there beside me. Where being forgotten or overlooked became a habit I got used to. I don't want people looking at these scars. I don't want them to be seen or understood or known. When I laugh instead of answer, say "never mind" instead of "I'm hurting"; I don't want anyone to realize it is because I'd rather not expose the pain that wasn't caused by them.

So here I am. Arrived in this way to say:
I am broken, and I don't mind.
I have scars on my skin and hurts that I am only beginning to understand.
I am also the heart between the I and the U.
I have been selfish in my pursuit of locating me, I will not apologize for that. I have been busy itching at the places I had no name for. Though my wings are slowly sprouting, the happiness located is so much more freeing.
I realized it's okay to admit to being scared. I am not fearful or worried. Neither of those find me here.
However, I am indeed scared.
I wonder if I will make rent.
I wonder if wandering from room to room forgetting what I was looking for, only to realize it's someone to take care of...and there is no one...is normal.
I'm scared that this is only a respite before another storm.
I'm scared that these scars might never go away.
And...
I'm also very much at peace.

Once I have exposed my scars, as they are, and found them to be okay...then maybe I can move past them. Perhaps over time I can learn to love those soft, tissue-covered areas that make me who I am. They might not be pretty, but they are part of something pretty awesome.

My wish, in sharing this, is that you may see that it's okay as well.
Be yourself, with your bumps and scars and jagged edges.
Laugh a little too loudly. Show off your cellulite, scars, jiggles and wiggles.
Know that it's alright to fall flat on your face or cringe away from something that hurts a little too much. In the end, it's all just a part of who we are. It ain't no thang... scars happen.

Moving Day

Today, I will move in to my new apartment. It signifies the beginning of a chapter, one in which I am living and loving on my own terms. One in which I am blooming within the garden of the will in which I rely. One without servitude or force, without limitations my own imagination concocted.

My own space. My own life.

I would like to take a moment of gratitude in writing...for I live much of my life in gratitude, however the word is a powerful thing.

I am thankful for the many many people who have helped me.

In support, listening, advising, pointing the way, shining a light in both the positives and negatives.

I am thankful for the hands, the direction posts, the lessons and the circumstances that have brought me to this place.

I have zero regret, or guilt, or bad feelings. Only blessings and love.

The desire to change what was binding led not to a "change" so to speak...but the unbundling and revealing of understanding. An acceptance for what is, and the release of all the masks I clung to.

I am here. 

For this, there is no one in my life who I am not fully in love with and in gratitude for.

Although I choose to embark on this journey "alone", I am not in a state of "alone-ness". Rather, I am at all times surrounded by a community of support and respect and love. Freely coming and going with the in and out breath. 

Thank you- for if you are at this moment reading, then you also are a part of my oneness. 

Lately, I have been asked quite frequently if I am afraid.

I have attempted to explain. Now I will express...

There is no fear in what I am doing.

There is freedom. 

There is peace and acceptance.

Where I notice concern, I breathe into this moment a release to know.

I do not need to "know" what is three steps ahead.

I only need to know now...and now, I am here. I am fine. All my needs are met and I am well.

There is no fear here.

Only gratitude and love.

As I move into a space I may call my own, it is with peace, thankfulness and open acceptance that this is where I am to be. 

All is well.

Listening

I listen a lot.

People will say they don't know much about me, but the funny thing is I'd answer if they asked. 

Loved ones know that. 

Others...well they just don't.

One of the main things I listen to is nothing at all.

When I'm walking, I listen to the trees.

When I'm in a crowd, I listen to the tone and the mood.

When someone is talking, I listen to their face....

Sounds funny, I know, but a face will tell you much more then words ever could.

What I really listen closely to tho, is actions.

Actions are deafening.

Actions are the very thing that probes beyond the words, the feel and the ideas. 

Actions give you a blow by blow on what's really going on.

Since I started practising yoga a couple years ago, I began to be very mindful of my own. 

At first, I still felt very out of control. I would try so hard to have my actions match my intent, match my words and so on. But it felt like I was trapped by this world.

In the last few months, I found a new strength. I hope it sticks around.

The strength lies in the ability to follow my gut instincts and act accordingly. It matches my thoughts and intent and ability to act, by accepting that each and every moment of each and every day are choices that I control. Not every situation is my choice, but what I do with it and how I react to it is.

Back to listening....

People will tell you if they want to be in your life. People will tell you if they care for you, love you or have any interest in you beyond what they can use you for. 

All you have to do is listen.

...and I'm becoming an excellent listener.

How It Ends

"Some things you let go in order to live" -Florence

If I turned, and looked over my shoulder, I could tell you a thousand tales. Stories of failure and triumph, joy and pain, villains and beasts and fairies and victors. I would sing to you folk songs of broken hearts and mended bridges. 

They would be mirrors of what was. They would be true and they would be false. For every story is only a piece of illusion seen only through my eyes and spoken in a whisper from the feeling they created.

They aren't my stories any more. They aren't my burdens or my reason. They are only parts of a cobweb that angels shed when they shine through the cracks in the floor boards. 

So what does that leave? 

Nothing.

 

A shadow in the starry night of someone in the shape of a human sobbing over loss for one last time. 

A safe journey only begun.

The dance on a dusty trail with no one watching but a nosy chipmunk.

It all means nothing, stitched together with good intentions and long lost love forged by familiar fear.

How do I begin?

With one simple sentence.

"I am here."

And I am. I am here, right here, right now, and nowhere else.

If you asked me, "why did you stay so long" my answer would be; "because I love him."

If you asked me, "why are you leaving?" My answer would be; "because I love him."

If you understand that...then you understand everything.

You understand the story, the illusion, the reason and the purpose. You understand the past and the present, and you can see me, clearly. You see the masks, the pain, the choices, the uses and abuses. As my hand touches the door knob, I could look you in the eye and you would see the light of this universal love, the present as it unfolds.

You would hear the voice that rings in my head:

"I don't know why I don't just stand outside and scream, I am teaching myself how to be free.

I know it seems like forever.

I know it seems like an age.

But one day this will be over, I swear it's not so far away." -Florence

I am inviting my truth and grasping onto forever. I am letting all these precious things go, and watching them fall one by one. 

I'm not brave or afraid.

I'm not strong or weak.

I am just me, as I am, 

And I am here.

Zero to Bi-polar

...in 2 seconds flat.

I was happily painting, living in my own world of no thoughts. 

A text..."are you coming?"

I smile.

"Oh yea. I was going to go meet someone tonight." I remind myself and glance down at my work. Torn between staying in my space of no thought and entering the world of socializing.

With a sigh, I made the choice to leave what I was doing to dry, and slip out for a bit to have a drink and chat. 

Throwing on a clean sweater and socks, I laced up my boots and walked out the door. With my earbuds in, I walked into the darkness humming along with the song. 

Peaceful, happy, content with the world and my place in it.

A hug of greeting for all the smiling faces. Light chatter and my mind far off trying to decide what colour I would use in the next layer of my painting that was waiting for me.

The buzz of conversation, and I found myself being slowly pulled into this reality. The one where things happen and people have troubles. Yet I was still quite far away, hovering above any feeling. Dancing around the edges of disappointment by being let down by someone who said they would have time for me and interest in the stories that were unfolding.

Between laughter and conversation, I was met with some news. 

The floor dropped out. My chest caved in. Blood pounding in my ears and red spots flashing in front of my eyes. 

How could you?

How dare you?

Why?

If not in a crowd, I would have folded over and cried. But instead, rage brimmed up and all that serenity and calm detachment; all thoughts of my painting and accepting what is...gone. 

This is how we forget to love.

This is where the silence and connection to all humanity snaps shut with a bang.

This is zero to bi-polar.

While raging in a storm, I forget to not judge. I forget that I have wronged people. I become broken, weak, mean. My inner well of pent up years, where stories swirl and razor-edged betrayal lurks to tell me how useless I really am; comes dangerously close to exploding. 

I didn't walk away.

I didn't return to my painting, where peace and letting go laid waiting. 

So, once over. As my 10 subsides to a 2, I look around through tears I finally let fall. How silly, my humanity. 

I realize that this is how it looks.

Taking things personally. Judging quickly. Allowing the actions of another to effect my mood, my peace, my sense of well being.

I realize that the issues I am facing have to do with how I take certain events. How I deal with them. How I react.

I can apologize. 

But really, I take a few moments to send out love. I take a moment to be thankful, to be gentle with my bi-polar self. 

It's no ones fault for the choices I make, or how I react to the choices they make. It is just a part of life, and like everyone else on this planet, I'm learning to love my way through it.

Little Broken Hearts

"Your dad took one look at you and went running in the other direction!"

The sting of tears jumping to my eyes and the sticky lump in my childish throat caused me to send an unsuccessful foot in the direction of my tormenting cousin. His quick side-step making my body tilt askew, knee twisting with the force of my missed kick.

"He did not!" I cried, off balance and fingers twisting around the doll I held tight to my chest.

"Yea he did. You're annoying and ugly and no one loves you!" My cousins' hand shot out to shove me backwards, slamming against my right shoulder and sending me tumbling with a butt-smacking lurch. Gravel shooting a dozen bee stings across my back and arms and digging grooves. "Just go away Bit" he spat at me, towering over and blocking out the sun for a moment before turning his back on my crumbling face.

 He kicked some loose stones that thudded hollowly against my knees and left arm.

That was the first time my tiny heart broke.

I actually didn't know why my dad wasn't around. I didn't really question it because neither was my brothers dad. It wasn't something that was talked about. I knew other kids had mums and dads. My mum had a boyfriend, my Grandpa was around and my Uncle Colin and there were lots of guys at church and in our apartment building who I played with.

That was the first time it have ever crossed my mind to wonder about someone who was "my dad".

My little mind conjured up the scene of a "dad", looking at tiny, wrinkled, baby me- the face in the picture my mum had from when I was first born- and sticking out his tongue. "Ew" he might have said. Maybe he handed me back to mum and said, "I don't want that." 

Or maybe he had never even held me. Maybe he had just looked and saw how awful I was and ran out of the hospital screaming like Animal from the muppets. 

I wanted to ask someone. Maybe my mum or my brother. But then I thought, what if it's true? My brother sometimes said I was a cry baby, so he might not tell me because then I would just make that awful noise he hated. And maybe that's why mum didn't talk about a dad. She would tell us not to say mean things, and that would be a mean thing. 

I hugged my doll, Annie tighter. With determination, I wiped my teary face and stood up off the rocky driveway. Sniffling and looking around to see if any of my other cousins were close by. I didn't want them to see me acting like a baby.

If my own dad thought I was ugly, maybe I should just run away, I thought. My legs, back and bum were throbbing and stinging from the fall, but I set my lips in a tight line and snuggled Annie up under my chin. I headed off in the direction of the bush. Past the house, down the hill and around the giant rock that marked the entrance of the forest.

My memories of that day from the point of leaving my grandmothers yard are quite fantastical and dream like. My adult mind questions the validity of sitting on the rotting soft wood of a stump at the edge of a swampy clump of rotting leaves and talking to a yoda-like creature. The trees most likely did not guide me or brush their limb-fingers through my hair to comfort me. I certainly could not have heard a rabbit tell me it was time to go home or watched as mushrooms sprouted out of the ground leading me to the road.

What I do know for sure is I was gone all day. It was almost dark when I made my way into the small town at the end of the island and a lady recognized me and called my grandma. I remember falling asleep to the sound of grown-ups talking about what a bold little shitty-pie I was. I didn't know what "independent streak" was, but I could hear the proud tone in my grandmas' voice, and with Annie tucked snugly under my chin, I slipped into an exhausted sleep.

It would be years before I discovered that my mum had left my father long before I was born, and that he had never, in fact, looked at my infant face. Meeting him in my teenage years helped solidify my belief that he had never, nor would have ever, said anything close to my cousins' claim. 

But words are powerful things. Hearts are hard to heal. 

One thing I know about my character is that I am as quick now as I was back then to run. Protect self. Fantasy or real, my first reaction is to pull back, resist, run and disappear. As soon as my heart starts to hurt, my fearful reaction is to put as much distance between me and whatever I think is going to cause pain.

Yet...

I have been learning. Slowly but surely, that it's okay. 

It's okay to hurt and I don't need to run back to my forest. 

I'm bringing this part of my journey out into the light because I'm pretty sure we all have some piece of us, some part of our psyche, that is still reacting to things; real or perceived, the exact same way we did when we were little. That first time our trust was broken or our faith was rocked, or we felt alone and lost and unworthy. It set us up to always resort back to that same feeling.

Maybe our outwards actions have grown up a little, but the knee-jerk emotional response is still that little broken heart.

I want to say it's okay, and maybe it's time to remember what caused it. Maybe it's time to put that memory in the palm of our hand, crush it like a brittle leaf and blow it away. 

Because people will break promises, hurt you, leave you, say mean things, be angry and confuse you, do all sorts of things that you can't explain or protect yourself from.

But bottom line, at the end of the day, you're gonna be okay. I promise.

Eaten Alive

Isn't it easy to take things for granted?

I think so...when becoming complaisant, it's a slippery slope to the bottom of the hill.

I think to myself, I shouldn't let things bother me half way down. But somewhere along the line, I hit that inevitable rock that lets me know how insignificant I am in this great big world.

It's something simple generally. 

I notice that I'm only as good as I'm useful and anything more then that is me-hands out-begging to be accepted.

By the time I'm there, it's really too late to take it back. The only real way of climbing back up is taking a good look around, gathering my strength with a deep breath, and starting the trek.

The world will eat you alive if you let it.

I prefer to not.

I prefer to suck it up and sigh.... Whatever.

Because if the world was a great big person, and I was getting stuck in it, I'd probably be the one climbing back out half-eaten.

 I don't accept being leftovers. I hear the call of an undying dream and the passion of a heart that refuses to stop beating. And all the passing fancies fade to nothing as I claw and scratch, bite and bleed, to do what I need to.

I will feel pain. I will get angry. I will make mistakes and hurt people and it will be ugly. I will have those times when giving up seems easier.

But...

That isn't the end of the story.

Because, 

I will feel ecstasy. I will become elated. I will succeed and help people and it will be beautiful. I will have those times when not giving up will pay off, and I will be thankful.

So-

Up or down.

Black or white.

Good or bad.

Sorrow or joy...

It is all worth it.

If you're looking for me, I'm in the middle of climbing back up that hill.

Lost Ones

I was quite young when it happened, my hazy memory a fog of snippets that I have not thought about or cared to recall.

I would have been 8 or 9 I think, for some reason the memory time-frame overlaps with my vivid recollection of Erin Burkholder, a childhood friend of mine that was murdered. 

In a musty smelling laundromat. My mother folding laundry on the end of a puke-orange yellowing table. The hum of dryers and ka-chunk, ka-chunk of washing machines. A tinkle as the back door swings open, the form of a man pushing through with a child in his arms. "If a woman comes in I'm not here." He says as he sets a little boy on the edge of the table.

I remember the smell of dryer sheets, the look of lazy confusion in the little boys' big eyes. The way his little hand wrapped around the mans jacket. The goose bumps on my neck and the icy shock of adrenaline.

He spoke with my mother, words I can't recall in the crumpled, faded memory. But the feeling I conjured back was one of a lesson...he was teaching someone a lesson by taking that little boy...someone had left him in a car and the man wanted them to be scared.

Many years after that, my two boys were abducted by their estranged father. Fresh from jail and angry that the courts had placed a restraining order on him, their father went to the person who was taking care of them and disappeared. I was at work when I got the call, and by the time I knew what was happening, he had caught a ferry to the mainland and my boys were gone.

Six weeks later, my boys came home to me.

Six weeks of panic, police, RCMP and cross provincial battles.

Six weeks of sleepless nights, innumerable tears, guilt, anger, anxiety attacks, frustration and fear.

This was a story I lived through, yet try to not think of. That time was one of the most defining and guilt-heavy periods of my life...

Because why did I let it happen?

What could I have done differently?

What happened to my babies when they were gone?

What did it say about my ability to parent and protect?

The things that were said about me, my mothering capabilities and my character were harsh, crippling, horrific. Things you wouldn't even think to say about someone you abhor. Yet I took it all, quietly, internally, and once my babies came home, I made my earliest escape possible, with the help of family from 3 provinces away.

Did my boy's father teach me a lesson...?

Yes, I suppose he really did.

Now and then something happens in the current time to peel open wounds such as these. Memories almost forgotten, or buried, get pulled to the surface so I can examine my perceptions, my fears. I get lost in how to deal with it, and think myself irrational for having an overwhelming reaction. I think I am not alone in this. However, due to the way I function, I don't want my personal crap overflowing on a situation that has nothing to do with me.

So this is me sharing a piece of my story. This is me dealing without oozing emotion and allowing myself to wallow in history. 

Not all stories end with "and then they came home." So I'm thankful for those that do. 

Perhaps the moral of all this is lost ones create ripples in our lives. Whether it is a momentary panic that ends well, a prolonged story or a permanent loss...

Whether it is our own, or our loved ones', or even just a knowing of someone else's' loss...

Lost Ones bring a lesson to us.

I can't say I'm grateful for this, not yet any way...

But I can say I am aware.

Mostly Just You

We hear all the time how horrible the world is. 

"Going to hell in a hand basket" comes to mind often.

It's so scary, with terrifying terrorists, medicated massichists, petrifying politics, victimizing violence. 

The weather is out of hand, the earth is purging our selfish selves. 

We have no control, so out of control...

So much terror, fear, anxiety, depression, suicide, homocide, distortion and exploitation.

Glued to screens that we hold in our hands we drink it all in and ask...

Am I Ok?

And yet...

I find we are. We don't know that we are, society and media will insist that we aren't.

The web of perception is slowly bending. 

Can you feel it?

Maybe it begins by turning off the media feed. It won't do you any good to know that people are still dying. The information you're getting is filled with buzz words that maybe you should hear a little less often.

Maybe you tell yourself that everything will be okay, and after a little while, you believe it.

Maybe you find your voice, your art, your talent that only you know exists. You take it out, brush it off and begin to allow it to blossom.

Who knows...

But whatever it is that you decide to do to change the crippling fear that is overwhelming your every decision and thought, I promise you, it is the right thing.

Because fear only needs a tiny toe hold in order to consume your every point of view.

Once you do,

The world slowly transforms before your very eyes.

Miracles begin to happen and angels dance on your fingertips.

Laughter comes easier, no force necessary.

You are free to be silly without embarrassment.

Your are free to experience your life in all the glorious ways it was meant to be experienced.

When a midnight text comes in with 3 little words...

Mostly just you.

That is enough to make you smile and know you are safe and cherished.

I know, the world will judge. They will assume and bash and kick to keep you down where they think you belong.

But it's ok my friend, I give you my word,

In a little while, it won't matter.

You are free to be your truest self, because you matter in this world at this time in the place you are, as you are.

The moment you are free to believe that, all the things of the world can't scare you any more.

And who has the power to make that happen?

Mostly just you.

Not Quite Dead

She shook her head, eyes cast down.

"Of course I knew..." She trailed off a moment. Looking back up to meet the accusing eyes. "I always knew it was a game, I just had hope is all. I just hoped that maybe the game would end."

One of the things people forget is that not everyone is playing, or playable. 

She knows the game.

Recognizes the game.

But chooses not to play.

But she loves the game players, and keeps hoping that one day they will realize that not every pawn is unaware. Not every pawn is making the expected moves.

 

"Don't you think if I had something to hide I would have reacted differently?" She asks.

The answer "I guess you're right." Comes slowly.

The dawning of realization that perhaps she knew all along that so many lies had been told, to her, about her, surrounding her...yet she was still here. Waiting to be stabbed, one more time. Why not?

She wasn't quite dead yet. 

And if she was worth using, worth stabbing, worth being lied to and about, then maybe her role in the cosmos wasn't quite played out yet.

It isn't that she can't be controlled...more that she prefers the illusion of being moved across the board.

Because she's still here.

She isn't quite dead enough to accept that someone can't learn, can't grow, can't be seen as they are and loved any way. 

And she does...love any way.

Because the tears she sheds now and then are not because she doesn't KNOW that she's being played, used as a pawn in someone else's game...the tears she lets fall are from the shattered hope that once again someone thought her too stupid to know what's up.

Their choice to lie to and about her stung because there wasn't any need to, and they couldn't see that. Their anger, not from the lesson they chose not to learn, but from being caught once again, was like the breath of life being snuffed out.

"It doesn't matter." She says.

"No?" The question sounds hollow, yet she knows what the intention behind it is, and she sighs.

"No, I don't mind being used for the greater good. I have broad shoulders and a strong back."

She doesn't mean this to sound martyristic, even as she knows it does.

She isn't quite dead yet.

Gut Kick

This morning, I stole out the front door;

Heading somewhere I hadn't quite decided on yet.

My shoes clenched snugly in my right hand, ears perked for any noises.

With a faint 'shhhhk', I closed the inside out and stooped to slide on my runners; back pack lazily sliding down my forearm.

The brightness of the day still hidden behind a sheet of morning haze, but the birds already chatting.

I glanced back at the door, imagining for a moment that it could slide wide open and I would be forced to reconsider my escape.

Yet it lay quiet, not a creak or a thud to suggest any life lay within.

I straightened, returning my burden to its resting place above the small of my back.

I contemplated the places I might go to achieve my task. So many things left unturned in this world.

Decisions make themselves at times, and my feet were already moving.

Why today?

Yesterday;

I received a solid kick to the gut.

An unexpected reminder that no matter how loyal, trustworthy or solid you may be....

Sometimes those you place that with will lie about you. Throw you under the bus. Stomp on your face and bash the holy living hell out of your good intentions.

Reasons unknown.

You might feel it was deserved on some level or another, but you know without a doubt you have never betrayed them. 

The shock of it is mind numbing. 

The pain unbearable.

You might sit there cradling your chest, begging for mercy, begging to breathe.

So...

You fall into a state of uncertainty. Questioning all your interactions and searching for a reason.

Somehow you just know, somewhere along the line you did something to earn that gut kick.

And you're sorry.

But it still hurts.

Today;

I stole out the front door.

My feet drawing me to rest under a weeping willow.

Alone, by my tree.

I sorted through the storm in my mind.

Returning the pain to the soil it was formed from.

I let it go.

I forgive.

Because I don't need to carry that with me, tucked in a back pack far too heavy to bear.

It is outside of me.

If I deserved it, then I thankfully accept that I am still alive to feel, and place it in the roots.

Not by water to cleanse; but by bark and leaf to grow.

I am thankful for betrayal; for I can still love beyond it.

I am thankful for hurt; for I can still live to experience it.

I am thankful for the lessons; for I am still alive to learn.

For You

I love you.

Not because of the way you do things or don't do things.

Not because I want to get or take anything from you.

Not because I need to control you or wish to change you.

Not because you give me something I can't get elsewhere.

Not because I'd die without you, or fall apart if we never cross paths again.

Not because you're perfect, and yet you are...perfectly you in every way.

I love you

Because I see you.

I recognize you.

I value who you are in both the goods and the uglies.

I feel your struggle and identify with it.

Maybe you make me laugh, make me smile, entertain me.

Maybe you break my heart, pull me to pieces, shatter my world.

Maybe you sit beside me, talking or listening as we share time and space. 

Maybe we hang out and fill the night air with levity and elation.

Maybe you reach for me when you are in tears.

Maybe we go on adventures or walks or do things only you and I can or will.

Maybe the only time we share is in passing now and then with a smile and spark of recognition.

I love you.

Because you fill me. 

You complete me. 

You bring me wholeness.

You connect me to the fabric of humanity and the experiences of this reality.

You give me something that only you can, it's unique quality a treasured gift.

I love you.

Because for so long I couldn't. 

I didn't know how.

I didn't know what it was or meant.

It hurt too much, I hurt too much.

I didn't want to because hate and anger was so much simpler.

I love you.

Because I can.

Because loving is freedom, and flows in a most natural way from the very wells of all that creates life.

And life....life is only that much richer, grander, fantastically beautiful, when observed through eyes of love.

Picket fence

My heart stopped....

When I saw you.

Torrents of ice and heat sparking through every cell causing my skin to tingle and breath to catch.

All the surprise I didn't expect, and face to face my knees water long enough to notice, not long enough to fall.

Because I brace myself,

A prepared barrier of what I know I shouldn't feel,

Every time.

I lock it down.

I shut it out.

Those things I can't let show, won't let show,

Since I know....

But out of nowhere,

There you were.

Standing right in front of me.

For that second, a stretch of eternity on the ear of a passing ant...

I fell apart.

My yield sign disappeared and I just loved you, without question or reason....

Just a puddle of pure elation to see your beautiful face.

Picking up the pieces.

Place them back where they belong.

A smile, a hug, a "been a while..."

And then you're gone.

I'm pretending not to notice, 

I pretend that it's all good. 

that's the only way for me to do the things I should.

Behind a wall of reason with all logic and all sense....

A shiny yellow yield sign tucked behind my picket fence.

Contracts

Every relationship is a contract.

We enter into an agreement with each other, understanding the rules and terms of our relationship. You provide thus and I will provide that…and it works, right up until one of us creates a breach in contract and we have a choice- break it or re-negotiate the terms, establishing a new contract.

We don’t often read the fine print, and most breaches come from the simple fact that our contract is so full of fine print due to the baggage we carry.

Intimate or partnership relationships I consider leases or rent agreements.

We are so excited, we sign the lease and put down our deposit with glee, happy to move in and take possession of our new home…the place we belong. Everything is shiny and new and fresh, and we spread out our belongings and settle in for the long haul.

One day, a note comes under the door. Rent increase. So we consider the pros and cons, but will most likely simply pay because it really isn’t that much after all. We love our home, our things are here, and it’s a small price to pay in order to remain comfortable.

After a little while, we notice cracks in the walls and ceilings- things we hadn’t seen before. We notice cobwebs and stains….but, we accept this. It is a comfortable home after all, and we realize we were not the first to live here. We love our home, our things are here, and it’s a small price to pay to not be homeless.

Our neighbors become noisy. They disturb our sleep and annoy us. We get cranky, and the price we pay for our comfortable home seems a little too high, with a rent increase, cracks in the walls, cobwebs and dust and noisy neighbors…but, we accept this. It is our home after all, and we wouldn’t want to have to start looking for a new one, and it’s a small price to pay to not be homeless.

Suddenly, the landlord decides we may not have a dog. But we love our dog, and the contract didn’t say we couldn’t have one! We are hurt, frustrated and angry. Why should we have to give up our dog when we pay our rent, put up with noisy neighbors, tolerate cracks in the walls and cobwebs and they are breaking the deal, not us! But, we love our home, even though we are no longer comfortable. We don’t want to look for another one, though we probably are starting to surf the “For Rent” column in the paper every week. And the price of not being homeless is starting to feel very steep.

A complaint is lodged against us by our noisy neighbors. We feel this is unjust! Who do they think they are? We put up with their crap all of the time. We have ridiculously high rent for a shit-hole of a house with cobwebs and rust and dust and cracks. We can’t have our dog, the place stinks and why are we even here anymore? We are now looking for a new home with renewed vigor because we can’t handle the thought of being homeless, but putting up with the asshole neighbors without our dog in this dung hole place with its’ cracks and dirt and filthy backed up sewage pipes is more than we can afford.

Then we see the rent is far too high elsewhere….and we wonder…is it worth it? Really, it could be worse……………….

So we either settle on the contract and suck it up, sometimes even cleaning and patching and fixing and being kind to the neighbor and trying our very best…..

Or we move. 

It Just ... Doesn't .... Matter

There is no shortage of people who will notice our mistakes, who will judge us and place negative meaning to our actions and words. 
They will not see the good we have done, but instead wait for us to stumble so they can say “See- you are a terrible person.” 
They will not look in our windows to see how we play with our children or sing them to sleep. They will not peer over our shrubbery to see us gardening in peace or petting our dog.
Yet, you may rely on it that the moment we raise our voice, or make our child cry or neglect our lawn, they are there ready to hiss at us and tell as many others as will listen how we suck at being human.

They need this to sustain their own stories and scripts. They can pat themselves on the back and say "Yes, I say mean things, but at least I take out my garbage."

 We understand this, we call it hypocrisy or "drama" or ... as I prefer... fear.
Fear?
Yes, fear.

I have come to understand that the nasty little voice that was forever nattering at me in my head; telling me I'm useless, ugly, unlovable, lazy and so on- actually resides in every single head of every single person we meet. Sometimes, the only way to drown out that voice is to justify.....
"I might be lazy but at least I don't scream at my kids."
"I might be fat but at least I mow my lawn."
"I might be mean now and then but at least I have friends who understand me."
You get the picture.
It has to be justified by outside sources, since we become so terribly blind to the merit of simply being.

I am no great pillar of wisdom on this matter- I've actually chosen not to blog about it a few times, simply because I don't think I have all the answers...or even some of them.
Today, however, I changed my mind. I am not going to remain silent about this any longer.

The end of this doesn't happen over night. You don't get up one morning and stop comparing yourself to others, or stop recognizing the negative actions, "drama" and so on. It is a long and tedious process...but one well worth it....because what does begin to happen when you choose to STOP THE INSANITY....is baby steps. Then one day you are sitting there, listening to someone talk, and you have a sudden and irreversible moment of clarity. 

It just doesn't matter.
"So she was like ranaranarana and I was all blahblah and it's like so not fair....I mean she does da-da-da and then is all up in my face when I blerk..... you know?"

And you do know. You know exactly............
But it just....doesn't......matter.

Why?
Because it doesn't.
Because you've taken time to learn that no matter what you do- no matter how you do it or why you do it- you've got a rapt audience for your f***k-ups...and no one notices or cares how long it's taken or what you've been through to get you there....that makes no difference in the world to them......but it's not even about you- 
and that is what the difference is.
It's not your mess up they notice.
Nope.
It's only a simple distraction to add to their collection of "other people's mess ups" so that they don't have to focus on that little voice that is SCREAMING at them about how useless, pointless, waste-of-space THEY are.
They were watching and hoping and literally praying for it, because the thought that you might be better than them in any way for any reason is practically crippling.

So how does it stop?
I don't really know how it stops for others...or even if it does. But I will tell you how I began the process of trying to stop it within myself.
I argued with my voice.

"You're useless"
"No, I'm not. I'm valuable and worthy of forgiveness."
"You're fat"
"No, my vessel is beautiful in all forms it takes."
"No one loves you"
"I love me."
"You're a terrible person"
"I am as perfect as I need to be at any given moment."

....and so on.....

I STOPPED arguing with those outside of me.
There is the door, you're welcome to use it.
That is your reality, not mine.
That sounds like a personal problem.
I understand what you are saying, but choose not to engage that thought.
(personal favorite) "Oh Yea......"

The hardest learned lesson for me has been and is:

"It's not your business what others think of you. If they think negative about you or your motivations, that is their problem, not yours." -Victoria Marcotte

Eventually, the voice is just a listless babble that pops by from time to time to check in on me. 

Why then...do I say this is fear?
Because the fear lies in the idea that the voice might be right!!
What if it is?
What if they all find out that I'm just this broken sham?
What if I AM unlovable?
What if I'm a fraud, and they ALL FIND OUT?!?!

So-
to face off with this fear directly, I stared it down.
I was blessed with someone who came into my life at the perfect time that I completely surrendered to. I exposed my ugliness, my doubt, my fear, my inadequacies..... and what they reflected back to me was understanding and acceptance. Perhaps, in a perfect world, I could tell you they loved me unconditionally, but that's a bit too happily ever after for my taste. Instead, I learned to love me unconditionally. I learned to truly forgive myself, and recognize that each and every day I am given the option to succumb to my fears and doubts or to stand up to them.
I also learned that it isn't selfish....not at all.
Why?

Because the simple truth is, once you stop listening to your own little voice, you discover another voice. This one can become the voice for others. 
When you stop focusing so hard on finding negativity outside of yourself to "prove" to self how "wonderful" you are.....
You begin to notice how wonderful others are.
You can tell them.
The way they get all "serious" when they try to explain something to you.
The way the light hits the side of their face.
How they try and try and try again.
Their laughter.
Their tears.
So much perfection that you can't help yourself but say...."you are beautiful" and mean it. 
Because they are.
Maybe they don't see it, maybe they can't hear it over the babbling in their own head, maybe they are lost and alone in a world so set on telling them how awful they are.
But you can.
You can, once you stop the insanity within yourself.
You don't notice who forgot to cut their lawn, or who kicked their dog, or who came stumbling home trashed from the bar with some nameless wierdo they just picked up. 
You don't notice because it just.....doesn't.....matter.........not any more.

You notice who stopped to get you a coffee, and you say thank you.
You notice that text message that came out of the blue that said "thinking of you", and you rejoice.
You notice the kind tenderness in someones' eyes and you say, "you will be okay."
You tell people they are awesome, because they are, and maybe you were the first person to say it that day.

The biggest thing that happens bit by bit, is you realize that all of this, every last bit; doesn't make you one teeny tiny itty bitty better than any one else. 
All it does is stop the crazy making and bring you peace.
Because if it's genuine, you no longer wish to compare yourself with anyone.
You just want to be you, and be the very best you that you know how to be.
And when someone calls you a snob or bitch, or tells people that you are a fake, or "betrays you"....you smile....because you know that is their reality, and it just......doesn't......matter.

Choice By Chaos

I once stood in the shackled darkness of mysterious place and sound. The smell, like the rancid aftermath of too many days lost in a bottle.

We christened each morning with ugly thoughts of yesterday, clinging to the hope that the bed might rot out beneath us and plunge us into some happy place. Cobwebs wove themselves while spiders lay in wait.

With only one, there are many. For the sides of that which we choose, and that which we do not, fragment like the shattered glass in an antique house.

 I don’t forget, but forgetting seems easier than trying to hold on.

We like to say we had no choice, but the truth is we did and do and will. 

Choices are like clouds that skate in the sky…once focused on, they form shapes and movements with ease. But if they are left up there with no notice, they simply float by, one after the other with no direction, eventually to dissipate.

I married chaos. With an “I do” to shame the angels on either shoulder, together we adopted faces and names and recorded our drama on the big screen in the sky. What he said she said they said, we did. Because, what we did they said he was, they should. But they didn’t, see, who did? If we don’t know, we fill in the blanks with supposition, propositioning the probabilities and potentialities of what she said they would, he might have. The rot becomes our four walls, and toes dance on the edges of our falling floors. I do.

What I don’t know, is when the picture became quite as clear as it is. Perhaps it was the day that the period ended not a sentence, not a paragraph; but a chapter at the closing of a novel. The period, only a dot, and maybe not even noticed more than a hair out of place, was actually the snapping slam of an entire story made from doubt.

Before that, who I was only dangled on the cobweb of defining moments. I transformed from the trapped fly to the nimble spider. I chose to weave my reality instead of tremble in wait to be consumed by it. 

But that was just a rain drop, and perhaps not even a big one.

Spiders are still brutally tiny in this great big universe. The construction of reality is very reliant on where she chooses to hang it and how she chooses to weave the webs that sustains her. If she could tell you just one thing, it would be that there are so many places in this world with teeth, some choices are like picking the best rotten apple.

Yet the process of divorcing bad decisions is a long and tedious one. I could say battles are won, but like those won in a courtroom they end with a clunk of a gavel and an all-rise. Perhaps the debate to settle without prejudice is chewed on by lawyers, with briefcases and twitchy-stressed out eyes. The starch of their tailored suits leaking into the very pores they sweat from and smearing it across the contract you’re trying to read. Their sighs are deafening and logic crippling.

And you want to just let it all go. Climb into the ocean and discover Atlantis….because down there you might be able to breathe so much better. 

But I didn’t, I didn’t let go…not right away any way. I stayed married to the fringes, trying to convince myself that I could not only change my reality, but maybe those around me as well. Couldn’t they see the rotting mire of what we were creating? Couldn’t they feel the presence of the stalking carnivore, ready to devour the whipped flesh of all we were trying to make? It doesn’t get any better.

Until the water.

As a Pisces, my sign being only the stars that chose to hang on the day of my arrival, is two fish chasing their tales. Forever dancing in a cosmic joke of balance and imbalance. Locked, perpetually in indecision and confusion. Seeing both the good and the bad as a juggling act, put on by yours truly. Out of water, we die. The air is just too much to take in sometimes. Yet in water, we flourish and grow.

I chose to stop denying what is. I chose to sign the paper and divorce that ridiculous story. I chose to find Atlantis. I chose to weave my web in a concrete corner, fending off bats with a barbed-wire heart. What’s more, I realized that I didn’t have to leave behind my loved ones…but I also couldn’t choose for them. Not letting them go, but letting them be.....

I see life as a series of metaphors, painted on the walls of rotting houses while the vibrant, thriving weeds choke it out. We don’t have to see it to know it’s there. What we create, crumbles like a sand-castle under the will of what we cannot control. Leaves, upon the surface of a mirror lake.

It can be beautiful, this thing called life. It can be joyful and peaceful and exquisite….. if we choose.

Pedestal

Pedestal

Only the perfect, deep shadows can etch your face,

Granite

Just as the sun hits the arch of your neck. 

Seen from below, while you tower above, chiselled beneath all the layers of memory.

That my knees battered and bruised;

Take notice how my back did not break:

Falling from your pedestal.

A heart keeps beating long after it shatters.

It scratches, scrapes, shudders with glass crunching aches.

Somewhere it numbs when it withers in shame, yet it won't stop pumping.

That my hands bare, empty, jagged and hollow; 

Take notice how my neck did not break:

Falling from your pedestal.

I'm just like the others; I wasn't quite strong enough.

Left you out cold; I wasn't quite good enough.

I hurt you and questioned; protected myself.

And who do I think I am?...

Look how the flower grows out of the concrete.

Listen as birds still sing in the rain.

Watch as the rainbow comes, see how the dead tree blooms.

Yes, my hands empty and always not strong enough.

Yes, my eyes shielded, protecting my soul.

Yes, my skin wounded and throat sealed in silence;

Yet now that I've fallen from so far, high up.

Now that it's done.

Can you see?

A heart keeps on beating long after it shatters.

It just keeps on loving long after it breaks.

Now that I've fallen, I can't fall much farther;

From your pedestal.

Piercing the Heart

Pulse racing.

Adrenaline pounding out a rhythm in hyper speed.

A scream, like a rock, heavy and covered in fuzzy moss, forming in my belly. Trapped and growing, forcing up to my rib cage, rattling against my heart and choking out my throat. A grip from the inside like the devil's knuckle bulging in my airway.

In my mind, I'm hunched in bed. Fists tight on the pillow my face is buried in. I am screaming and screaming. Tension like a cobweb being pulled off my skin. 

Aching so deep I can feel the pits of my insides like shards of glass urging their way towards the surface.

This is how I miss, I miss like a silent stalker catching his prey; hand over mouth and laughing. 

Breathe out.

Stoic and strong, I am the ocean, I am the tree.

The buzzing pain in the air swirls and forms a bee hive. Wings that hum and bodies stinging. 

Today, while I was wiping down stairs, a song came on. I heard you singing and I stopped what I was doing to share that moment with you. 

While cutting potatoes, I tucked the ends aside. A pile at the end of my cutting board. 

While walking, I look up. The sky is the same blue and you are not there talking to me, but I can hear you. 

I sat and stared at some water, expecting that when I looked over my shoulder you ought to be right there. 

I sometimes pause to wonder how you are. I think you are laughing somewhere and it makes me smile. Sometimes I feel like something is wrong, and I send you a hug I hope you know it is coming from here. 

Wanting and willing are two different things, like intangible words that's dangle in the air, unable or unwilling to form matter.

A cry splits the air like lightning and rolls as thunder and I shudder. 

Tension as a blade that plunged deep into my heart, and I see your face. I miss you.

I look around me and wonder; can you feel it? The reflection in those around me is as clear as still water below a mountain. Crystal clear, we feel, we feel.

Yet it continues.

This exquisite pain, ice cream melting over the back of a hand. Icy trails of agony so palpable I can't catch my breath.

We can't breathe.

Breathe out. 

A community in this moment that is watching the birthright passage of vulnerability escape the human trappings. A cat caught in a bear trap. 

The refusal to release and let go.

Breathe in.

Then tears fall. The tears that escape a dam before it falls apart. Each one a piece of heaven, eroding the armour so carefully constructed.  

The tragic demise of self preservation, for now is the only second that exists.

Breathe out.

 

How fortunate, the few, who see and understand the feeling of loss. The feeling of separation, not by force but by will. To miss beyond longing and long beyond missing. To pierce the firm exterior and find the blood beneath, pooled and waiting, only to flow. Only to breathe...

Breathe in.

Unexpected Gifts

It's easy to take things for granted.

"I never do anything for myself." She sighs deeply, flicking her perfectly shop-French-tipped-manicured fingers through her six-hundred-dollar hair extensions.

"You know? Like it's always go go go, and never a minute for me."

"That's rough." I say, snatching a glance at her from over the edge of my coffee.

"Ugh, you know I don't know what I'm gonna do." She tops up her wine from the half empty bottle of Chardonnay. 

We have been sitting here for the last two hours, conversation only interrupted by the tinkle of incoming texts and the pause while the tac-tac-tac of the response is hammered out.

"We could go for a walk." I suggest.

"Oh I'm just so tired, like you have no idea, so like, today, I had to go get my nails fixed, because you know, those nail people are just so unprofessional. So I'm sitting there, and I have to tell her three times my pinky is crooked! Finally, I had to tell her I just wouldn't pay, and I mean, I could go somewhere else! And since I'm like, a regular, that would be good business they are losing!" 

I curl my own broken and jagged nails inwards, suddenly aware of the paint spatter and Clay across the tips. 

"I just don't know how you do it." She carries on. "You just do the stuff you want to all the time." 

"Not all the time." I answer, trying not to notice the glaring difference between my ragged, stained jogging pants and her perfectly crisp designer jeans.

"But you're always so content, and I'm just exhausted. I mean, if I don't unwind with my wine at the end of the day I'm just a wreck!"

I'm not sure what to say. 

In the silence that stretches between us, I come to realize that as much as I'd like to get my hair and nails done weekly, have a hot tub to lounge in while sipping my imported wine, be exhausted from doing nothing but pamper myself every day, complain about being broke with a couple thousand in my bank account... I actually am very lucky. I'm blessed. 

Since I see these things as exquisite treats, they are sacred and blessed events. 

I stretch my work hands out and scratch my tangled, undyed hair. In an hour, when I climb into my second-hand car and drive to my where-the-poor-live home, I will count my blessings and find that my cup runneth over. When I crawl into my comfortable bed, I will begin to write a letter to someone who has nothing but bars and time.

Once, I would never have considered writing to someone in prison. When I started to, I thought I was doing them the favour. I was extending compassion, sharing a burden, being an ear or shoulder to listen and lean. It didn't take long at all to realize that I had it totally wrong. It was me who was learning, growing, leaning and expanding. There are lessons I have learned both in triumph and in sorrow while sharing my time and life with the prisoners I correspond with. These are gifts from an unexpected source.

"When I look around this cage, these four walls, all I can see is the past that brought me here. But when I think of the coffin I could be looking at, I say thank you bars. This is both my shame and my salvation." -excerpt from a prisoners letter

I have friends and acquaintances from all walks of life. From the grass is always greener to the sky is falling, from the cup is halfway full to the going-to-the-garden-to-eat-worms sort. There are those who have cast me out of their lives with and without reason. There are those I have chosen to distance myself from with and without reason. The lesson I am learning from all of this is we are all the same. 

 Perhaps it's not what we have that matters, but how we see what we have. From someone who has everything money can buy, to someone who gets by, to someone who has nothing but remorse and shame....we are all the same. The person who can appreciate everything while having nothing is as equally blessed as the person who appreciates nothing while having everything. 

Perhaps then, the blessing is not the having, but the knowing. The gifts that all these people can give is the unexpected gift of being, it's up to us whether we accept it or not.