Someone's looking out for you

So last year I amended my taxes because I didn't want the fight.  The ex is in a constant state of threats.  I had (rightfully) claimed the boys and he flipped.  Without going into too much detail - remember it IS in my best interest that he remains fiscally healthy - I 'gave' him the deduction for two years at an overall cost of 6k to me.  But something strange happened last year when I did that, when I just leaned into it...

Picture this I'm sitting in the accountant's office; overworked, overtired, overdone.  I had the thousand mile stare of one who had become numb to combat,  a warrior who knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I would have won that battle, but a I was a little girl with a red haired pony tail that just desperately needed a hot bath and a nap that lasted a week.  Fight? I just didn't want it.  It didn't matter that I was right.  It didn't matter that I could take it to the mat.  It just didn't matter.  So I give him the 2 years, not for him,  For me.

I wanted peace.  I wanted a clean sheet of paper.  So I amended the taxes and left that office smiling - because in that instance the pen was indeed mightier than the sword, mightier than the court room, mightier than the judges gavel slap.  I smiled the whole way home.  I cringed a bit every month for the past year when I made the monthly payment, knowing it wouldn't be paid off in that year, it would only be dented.  My friends called me crazy, my accountant shook her head but understood.  And a year when by...

Today I did my taxes and (rightfully) claimed the boys.  He knew I would.  He knew I had to.  He knew there was only so far that I could be pushed until I had enough rest and adjusted the shield for battle.  There was $ coming back for this single mom and I told the accountant to square me up with the IRS and whatever was left over, I'd take the boys to dinner.  I'm squared up, and once again I left the accountants smiling.  I felt like a grownup which rarely happens.  I mean, let's face it, I run this entire beautiful shit show - but sometimes it feels like I'm just wingin it.  And as I open up and talk to everyone else, well, so are they.

We all have to adhere to the code that is correct for us.  What good is the fight when my precious life energy is needed in so many other ways?  What good is it to win when it parts you with endless photons of energy that scatter like snow when a car flies by?  I need to be ok with me - and if that goes against the norm, or what people think I should do - so be it.  I'm done asking for permission to live my life.  I'm finished adhering to some mysterious set of terms in regards to what we 'should' do, or what they 'would' do.  No one knows that crap for sure unless they've spent the entire amount of time I've been on this earth in my shoes.  I do what I do based on how the ship is balanced at the time - whether I sit in a typhoon or calm waters.  It's my shit show and it's beautiful because its mine.

I'm neither too old or too young, too smart or too dumb, I can be rich and broke at the same time - depending on what we are discussing, but I'll tell you what I always am; equipped, provided for, filled with faith, love and wonder and above all hope.  Here's to a poker game that never ends, dice that always roll, a sun that always rises, and a moon that shares my tears and fears with no one.  This is my life and I'm on it like a bonnet.

When my accountant told me today that my return equaled almost to the penny TO THE PENNY what I owed,  I shook my head and asked "How is that even possible?"

She put her pen up over her head and said "My dear, someone is obviously looking out for you!"

I think she's correct.  I know she is.

Follow your compass and things fall right as rain.

Happy Returns

Namaste

Calling

Image from Baldwingypsycaravan.com

I’ve taken a few months off of blogging.  Stupid busy I’ve been in an effort to salvage.  Dreams have been swirling; epic and constant – Jungian myth style; Floods, Reflections, Regret, Redemption.  The moon is out there somewhere and I need some time with her. 

So what have I been up to?

My anthropology group has been kept up with and provides excellent fodder for the human condition.  I’ve been graced with the company of a modern day Coven of Witches, I have both taken and passed Reiki Healing One, Deepened my understanding of mediation and the practice of it, soaked up energy at a Buddhist temple, read more than any normal person I know (mind you I don’t know many) and read most of it at the ‘3AM spirit hour’, Discovered that my spirit/totem/guide animal is The fox, Kayaked late into December in some idiotic frigid conditions and just returned to my liquid space this past week, I’m in serious talks with a charter school that is mapping a way for me to teach (finally), I am finding myself in quick sands of fear as I am currently working 3 jobs in an effort to keep the werewolves from the door, I’m in deep recognition of resentment and all its pitfalls.  All in all things are good. 

But I desperately miss writing – on a level I can barely comprehend; the craft of it, the cadence of it, the creation of it, the sin of it, its chaos, its order, its demands, and the shadows it brings to my being.    I have visions of it and fantasies of it.  

Case in point –in my mind’s eye I sit in a gypsy vardo wagon at dawn, solid in that gauzy light between the morning and eternity.  I smell the nubbled wood around me, acrid and dry from its last oiling.  I’m in a field of ancient apple trees long gone to crab.  They are twisted and tortured and knowing trees; the spirits of mist lay low at their bases.  There are white blossoms slowly drifting to the unseen ground here and there.  I wear a loose wool blanket and am skin underneath.  A small slut stove burns with true light and heat, a simple pot boils water for tea.  I have a loose large book of parchment spread before me; words and dribbles of ink.  I have written of a witch at the base of a mountain that plucks the rain from the clouds and feeds a fertile valley below.  Each month the stone witch captures the moon in the dark waters of a wooden bucket and intends things.  Though the apple trees bloom, time here is different and cold weather will come. I ponder if I will finish the story but I both hope and fear it will never see an ending and I’ll have to burn it all so as not to freeze when the snow makes its way back…

Oh but if I could exist awake all the time, I’ve so much to do and far too many responsibilities.  And I work too goddam much.  In the coming months I will be culling things that no longer feed my essence. 

My gypsy wagon is out there somewhere, but for now I carry it inside, I'll find it one day.  

I must believe that.  

Namaste