Stuck on Repeat

Warriors with different weapons

Deviance with new device

Prayers of Ancients bastardized

Dreams of better still take flight

There is no river stood in twice

Yet here we are

Again

Without an end

My Whiter Shade of Pale

The swift coming of my 30th class reunion coupled with social media (which was non-existent in my younger years) has me wondering about certain people. I am missing some and happy some are no longer in my circle.

One person in particular seized my mind as ghosts from the past will sometimes do.  This person, CWDP, had come into my life from a far off place - dropped like a human meteorite, literally, in my back yard.

I had been dating a young man who had some 'yet to be uncovered issues' and I accompanied him to a friends house one evening.  I walked into a house (which at the time, unbeknownst to me, was a church related half-way house).  It honestly didn't matter that I had no clue as to what that was at the time because it was love at first sight.

There stood a quite tall, quite broad male in his late 20's with slightly shaggy, slightly sun-kissed blond hair.  The hair framed a pleasant and open Germanic face with Hazel Blue eyes and a slight gap in the front teeth.  We locked eyes.  I understand now it was for very different motivations.

At the time I was maturing at so many different rates as well as regressing in others.  I would've done anything to escape my childhood home, my mothers mental illness, my fathers rage, and the constant flood of financial insecurity which silently seeped and soaked like a plague over everything.  Almost overnight, the other guy was history and CWDP and I were inseparable.

I'm in my mid to late 40's now and my mind seems to perform subtle seemingly unplanned excavations of my memory on both mental and cellular levels.  I say seemingly because I know there are greater forces I've accepted...a sort of Meta Self...that knows exactly what it is doing.  I've learned to trust this process.

Back to the present...

I decided to look CWDP up on social media.  Nothing.  I looked him up in my surrounding state.  Nothing.  Then I recalled he had always had an affinity for the beach, specifically the state of Florida.  I had run there after my high school graduation with him, to escape, to 'start a new life' and to prove that I could do better than what I had been raised with.  Young impetuous fool.

I decided one more search, then I would search no more.  Come on Sunshine state...

I typed in his name and 5 seconds later arrest records appeared throughout the mid to lower section of Florida.

One offered a picture.

I clicked on it and waited, it was like looking through cloudy water as it refreshed a few times until it became clear.

A Mugshot of a 54 year old CWDP.

People stay frozen in our minds at the age we remember them, as if the brain has a snapshot that is always current and fresh.  I wasn't looking at that shaggy open Germanic face of 26, I was looking at what he had become, what he was under that surface all along.  It was difficult and frightening.  I talk a good talk but when it comes to the law, I respect and obey.  Without it we would deteriorate into chaos.  And that is what I saw.  Chaos.  Eyes that had become devoid of anything remotely like the 20 something I left years ago when my father (within and hour of my distress call) procured a ticket to bring me home from the sunshine state.

And suddenly, with the maturity of looking at a road behind oneself and looking at roads that may not have been traveled, I suddenly understood that I was one lucky girl that grew into one lucky woman who, upon seeing that picture, transformed into a deeper state of gratitude than I thought possible.

My process through things is to write, to lay down ink, to get it out on paper where I can save or burn it, to not let whatever it is fester in me like an infection; stealing my energy and life force.

I ran south with this guy. I left my family behind.  Forgiving myself for what I had put them through took much time.  Forgiving them for what I was running from took longer.  If they would've known better, they would've done better - same for me.

I had watched this young man and pretended not to see the small hints...petty crimes, theft, small drug things, larger theft, entitlement, narcissism, lack of remorse.  I felt if I just loved enough I could absorb all of that and it would all be ok...such awful learned behaviors. If you knew better, you would've done better.  Let it go.  You raised your children and gave them tools you didn't have, tools you had to learn.  They have them now , it's ok to let it go and lay it down.

The biggest surprise is what I'm going to share now...

I have learned to love my ex-husband, and this situation deepened that love.

My ex-husband was quite a bit older when I met him.  He had gotten most of his dumb shit out when I met him.  Most of it.  Those patterns can be so deeply ingrained within us that if we don't recognize that they are there, if we don't balance and learn from them, if we do not honor that they are as much a part of us as everything else we are, they can AND WILL overtake us.

I felt grateful for him.  Grateful for my ex-husband.  Even though he almost broke me, and hollowed me out, he made me so very strong.  He also gave me the children I have, which made me so very tender.  It is because of this love and strength that I was forced to dive deeper within myself, and to give my children what both he and CWDP never had; the unconditional love of a mother - a real mother that was all in, all the time. 100% straight from some dormant DNA in my soul that expressed itself upon my near demise.  I love a stronger unbridled love today because of my ex-husband.

Because of him I became an almost mythical warrior mother being, to be there, to watch, to willingly be over vigilant to the point of exhaustion, to pour so much love, over and over again out of a seemingly empty cup.  I was able to look at my children and turn to look at the history of my past and somehow I knew that was both God and the perfect divine alignment of everything.  The unseen had been watching out for us - watching our for me, so I could stand when I wanted to fall, so I would protect them when I was too weary to lift my soul sword.  I work on self acceptance every day, but never once do I doubt that I am now strong.

I work on happiness, undoing grooves in the record of my brain to create new paths.  I crave to 'Learn Better so I may do Better'  it's there for all of us if we want it.

I've earned and gained the respect of friends and family who view me with eyes I will never see myself through.

I truly believe self evolution is  a Great Magical Realization and Shift where you hover above your own being and see all sides, all angles, both gray places and thin spaces. You accept the wrong and the right, the clean and the dirty, the muddy and the clear; for you would not know one true side of anything without the other.  It is within this mosaic of everything I am learning to accept the gift that is ME.

I've earned others' respect but more importantly;  I've earned my own.  This has been the hardest to imagine, accept and do.  It was only when I was tired, completely spent yet grateful and tender with myself that both respect and forgiveness washed over me...took me in it's arms and said 'It's ok, YOU are ok.'  It's a wonderful magical shift I wish for everyone, for what is this life if we know not the unexcavated parts of ourselves?

'Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure' - Rumi

Namaste

They don't look like me...

So a friend of mine sent me something that they thought I would plug into...social media warriors that show skin with ink and aren't afraid of it.  They use the community to to appreciate their differences...darling, I've been striving for that since day one...

Being a ginger is, by default, different.

It caused ridicule.
It caused lust.
It caused adoration
It caused fist fights.
It caused a marriage.
It caused children.
It caused uncertainty.
It caused divorce.

It resulted in questioning and eventually (thank all that is holy) acceptance of self.

Different has always been my thing...from birth.

The site features ladies with lots of ink...on exposed bodies.

You're talking with someone who bypasses ink,, who has major commitment issues, because I understand the ebb and flow- I've lived it through many existences.  I know the only constant is change.

I have cosmic ink...permanent tattoos known as freckles - been there, done that, since being incarnated over and over as a familiar, yet foreign, energy.

My hair, my crown, my thorn of rose colored locks - is a waving flag of difference that I cannot deny.

The ex wanted blonde.  Ex for a reason.

I have learned to accept myself...dare I say...love myself.  Not all sins are visible.  Mine are much deeper than skin, I assure you.  Both a blessing and a curse.  You speak of discomfort - I breathe it, and have chosen to keep breathing.

The ridicule, the hate, the adoration, have molded me beyond belief.
I have crowned myself with my own sword.
I have been my worst enemy and my best friend.
I have been certain and uncertain - stumbling through the dark, crying in the night, persecuted throughout time for what people ASSumed I was.

And yet here I stand.  In love, in difference and indifferent to your view.

Here is my profound rebellion - I have learned to love myself.
You no longer seep into my cracks - I love all, have compassion for all, I identify with universal and am united.

I see and love no gender.  I see and love all color - we are a rainbow of existence.

I have found peace and I am not letting it go.

It's a fine reduction sauce that has slowly simmered into peace, and I dine on it's delicious flavor daily.  I am fed and satisfied with who and what I have realized.

I AM LOVE.

My reply to my friend..'They just don't look like me, I'm staring down 50 and can't wait to be 80 - Somehow I feel more whole than I have ever been - FK I should post that'

So I did.

Love who and what you are.
Namaste

Vigil

Dark Urges

A Heated Blade

I see a glass...I could shatter it in a second 

and dig it in the next.

A new urge, a new level - and my life is considered 'pretty good'

So WHY

What is this switch, cobwebbed and dormant in a walled off stairway 

curving up to a dusty room - a hidden self?

This switch that is recognizable yet remains mute in its elucidation.

I've been here before - but this demon wears so many faces.

I was taught to blame myself

to Default to My Fault

Take the blame, make it disappear like a gourmet meal, devour it - 

though it will clog you and slowly, methodically, stop your fucking heart.

This switch is a scent you recognize - an inner fettering of recall.

Like mothers milk to a starving victim that is 

KEPT

KEPT

KEPT

Act like you like it.

Things FEEL good,

Don't they?

Don't they?

Don't Deny.

But it's a slight of hand, it's a tongue that is forked, seeking warmth; 

seeking to devour the afterbirth of a still born dream that grows cold.

DO NOT go back to that den.

Yet all the signs on every single fucking road lead there.

Bridges are out.  Washed away.

Dreams round over time - their jaggedness dulled to an acquiescence

that can dully, dutifully bludgeon your soul.

Gulp breath.

Kick to the surface

Tears carry the poison

Action is antidote.

Warm Bath, a pen, a page, a glimmer of YOU coming to save YOU.

Harness your sword

The True Enemy is OUT THERE

not IN HERE.

You light a candle for the Virgin and the Maiden you never got to be. 

Not today, you whisper, Not today.

6 degrees

Of Course the muse hits a bit after midnight...where I am in a box when I long to walk the wet dark pavement and know that I am real.

Gone are the days of anonymity, where you could go a mystery unsolved, where words were spoken and unregistered into the great electric mind - forever preserved in a screen shot and a save.

The days of 6 degrees are upon us.  Barely a challenge anymore for a girl who was once told by Mister Goldfinger that she was crafty and the Secret Service had nothing on her methods.  Back then defeat was defeat - an admittance to a formidable foe.

Now threads are so obvious you can navigate them in your sleep, barely a blip on the emotional EKG.  Goddamn it, where is the WORK, the HUNT, the primal scent of blood and the horns blowing in the deep woods.  The chase is gone - no skill afoot - it has made me dull.  A pair of baby blues looking 2 hours into the next state; show some originality, damn you.

Apathy is a form of bliss - the result of perceiving no challenge at all.  Disinterest I may tell you- but not in all capital letters.

In my mind, relationships have converged to meet in a recognition of mob mentality.  Not one individual stands out as we all stumble that same lost path, the same error in judgment.  Rats in a maze I grow tired of...such drivel set before a mind made from stars.

Literature has taught me a catalog of behaviors and species - It seems I am part of the problem.

I am bored to tears, yet i shed none.

'She went like one that hath been stunned and is a sense forlorn:

A sadder and a wiser man she rose the morrow morn'

Green

I awoke to the silent buzz of the forest,
windows open, the ancient chill caressed my bare skin.

everywhere my gaze touched green
undulating mounds and tufts of ground mixed with jutting dark earth.
trees in various migration toward fall, then snow.
vines begging for the sky.
moss drunk with a night now gone
images of green eyes seeing me - so rare.
Lips touched by Celtic things,
bruised by clouds;
lusty yet tender.

i desire more

What are you,
really?

Treasure in Ruin

Brilliant blue sky, almost surreal - where you believe you can will time, itself, to stop.

Ancient Maples.  I took refuge under their page sized leaves and cried silently, often.

They gently swayed with the fullness of summer.

Solstice...it was to be all downhill toward the darkness from there.

Two babies.  Two years.  Too much for you.

I was finally remembering myself and getting a foothold.

Still plump but getting back to the me I had been, the me you wanted me to forget.

It was a perfect day for real estate - everything would show well.

You were going to swim in an over-sized Hollywood Azul Pool with them 

and 'allow' me to 'have something for myself'

I grabbed my briefcase, stepped into my heels and made it to the flats; a plateau of land that was the

 original dump when the farm land turned suburbia was young, when I was young, when we had 

made the move from Brooklyn to the 'boon docks'

I had forgotten...something?  

Was it my phone? I cannot recall now, all these years later but it was incidentally monumental;  

right up there with a wrong turn down the right road that leads you to your core.

I circled around.

Back across the rolling farms that had sold chunks of land off to build schools.

It truly was a lovely place.  A place where nothing could go wrong.

My grandmother always commented that the apple trees reminded her of Scotland.

I felt so lucky.  

I could see the fence within myself and was ready to climb back into a career, 

back into me, and into our future.

I climbed the long driveway to the house on the hill built by 2 sisters,

 at the foot of a watershed mountain.

Good Water.

Well Water.

Water that had nourished the farm and the ancient orchard in the front that sporadically bloomed.

I had won the personal lottery; out of a childhood of financial uncertainty... 

fighting, dissension, lean holidays and day trips but never vacations.

I parked and rounded the yard.  

I could see you on a pristine white lounger; one of four we had purchased.

My four year old next to you like a clone.

Both oiled, arms akimbo behind your heads - lazy afternoon ahead.

I couldn't see my little guy.  My two year old.  I walked closer, 

my heels sinking into the fertile yard, 

beads of sweat on my back, 

under my dress clothes - black and now stifling.

"Where is he?" I asked, my voice pitching away in a whispered shriek.

You sat up, startled, and glanced toward the pool then looked relieved - like a bullet dodged.

"He's fine!" You said far too enthusiastically, "He's in the boat, see? Fine!"

A smiling two year old.

Alone.

In a large, luxurious pool.  In blue trunks.  In a blow up boat.

Kicking off my shoes I jumped in.  He laughed and clapped and lunged into the water.  I caught him.

'MOMMA!' 

Oh such a game

A wicked game.

You stood up.  My older one looked puzzled, looked at you then at me - half a smile.  

Something wasn't quite right and he knew it, for he already had a greater compass 

and stronger stars than a man decades older. But that would prove to be part of his sacred contract.

You stopped walking toward me midway between the chair and pool.

To this day I wonder what it was you had seen in my face that planted you in that spot.

That kept you there while I held him fast and wrapped a towel around him.

I could no longer make a run for the fence, for I had to make sure I could clear it for three, 

and I just wasn't a strong enough runner...not yet anyway.

Plans changed.  My appointments would wait.  Finding me again, would wait...for 17 more years.

I felt cheated.

I felt trapped.

But I never looked back.

I couldn't see the future, but I knew you weren't in it.

Approximately 17 years later, almost to the day - the solstice to be exact - I heard of a drowning.  

A child.

It brought that day back with such lucidity it took my breath away.  

I could feel the sunlight through the swaying lush green maple leaves.  

The sun bouncing off my luxury sedan.

I tasted the decision to bypass what I needed and stay with that precious little man, 

to play, to nap, to hold him close.

I know now I regret nothing.

Time has assured me; slowly, patiently, delicately.

Even when this child, now a man, slights me (as young men can)

tells me he doesn't need me (as young men believe)

rolls his eyes when I remind him a mothers love is endless (as young men forget) 

I love him fiercely.

It's a knowing love, that angels intervened on our behalf to keep us safe to 

get us here, to arrive at this moment, and then the next.

This is a mothers love.

This is a warriors understanding.

These are selfless choices for life beyond our own.

And this precious young man is the truest wealth and most handsome of treasures 

for believing in those choices.

Oil on Water

Many things are going on right now under my roof.  Much shifting and movement and this most recent full moon had me only mumbling thanks and gratitude...not much of a draw down there.  I can't get to myself.

I've locked myself so far away into my body vessel that I no longer feel integrated, it's more...compartments.  I know enough about myself to understand that this happens as a result of a spike in depression or an undercurrent of stress that isn't being dealt with.

The other day a friend of mind had me in touch with myself on a physical level and it was like being splashed with cold water.  I also find pockets of this when I am in the 'moment' of walking my sons' magnificent dog through the woods, or paddling a deserted lake on my kayak.  I am fully aware that I need to do more of these things to unlock myself.  It's like trigger finger - but the entire being.

Knowing what to do and actually doing it in terms of self care are two very distant concepts right now.

So why the stale mate?  Answer, unknown.  All I can imagine is that the eternal me is trying to give ballast to my vessel.  Nothing feels solid; not me, nor those around me, not where I live, not my education or belief system...not the car I drive or even the cup of coffee I purchased this AM.

Honestly, what is most disturbing, is when these feelings have cropped up in the past, I've been able to triage, diagnose, and treat accordingly.  I'm leaving way too many options open when I really just want to nail doors shut.

There are things I want to do in my life, things I need to implement, want to implement, know to implement and yet I'm not willing to come out of my hiding spot yet...so I keep counting...ready or not here I come....but I won't find me on this round....count again.

If I had to liken it to something it would be like attending a huge buffet where everything looks delicious and you know you require sustenance - but on a subconscious level; you choose hunger.

My soul is starving and I'm plowing wheat back to seed.

I do what needs to be done.  I wake up everyday without fail and I get ready, grab a lunch I made the night before, put on clothes I've laid out on Sunday (yes, I lay my clothes out for the week), I never question the gas in my care (it never goes below half a tank).  I no longer question my bank account as it sits with a reserve.  I know where my adult grandchildren are, know the pets are fed, the bills paid on time, the bathroom left as I found it.  I have become Maquina (Spanish for machine) and frankly....I am bored out of my fucking mind.

When on earth did I become so task oriented? And as I write this I realize the auto pilot of tasks needs to be balanced with the moment.  For me tasks are tasks because although they are performed 'in the moment' they really only serve the future...like the paving stones of what you Need to do, not necessarily what your soul Needs or what You Want.  But perhaps the tasks are freeing up the brain power for the creativity that is roiling your insides - threatening to make you sick lest you let it out.

A few years ago I was out of control/yet bored - sort of in the same spot.

I had a very nice, very classy, very expensive care break down on a back road in Wantage.  I'm prone to taking odd roads on a whim, especially when the music is good - it's always represented a mile covert form of freedom for me.  So the car breaks down.  Dead.  I sit there in that moment of Oh My God...NO.  I stepped out of the care and didn't bother to pop the hood because I would've had not clue what I was looking at anyway.

I remember the sound of the crunch my shoes made on the oil and stone road, the dust had settled almost immediately as there was only a slight breeze.  I heard myself sigh.

I HEARD MYSELF.

There was a low bellow coming from a pasture beyond a thin treeline at the side of the road.  There were cows amongst scattered birds.  I could smell the road and the dirt and the faint manure that the chilly air had dulled.  I stood there for a long time.  Just breathing.  No one on earth knew where I was at that exact moment and the thought of that was beyond delicious.  Covert.  I didn't think about the car or it's dead battery.  I didn't think about tasks.

I was stuck...
I was also free.

I leaned against this metal gate that had been seemingly shut once and never again opened.  I felt the breeze.  Not one car went by.  I realized everything that I thought I had to do, that was on the running list in my head, would not get done and yet the clouds and the breeze and the cows would still be there.

There's something sensual about the breeze on your arms and neck - they remind you that you have skin and flesh and though your soul is eternal, your flesh is not.  Flesh is meant to be felt.  You are meant to be present.

I need to be present.  I will move toward that.

Your greatest wish

When we met we shared our pain.  I didn’t know that it would exasperate slowly and by the power of intention come home to roost.

So your father was a millionaire that was cast out of his family and you got to view it from afar,  if at all.  Then he met your mother…and then you guys came along.

A distant relative in a black hat flew in from an old money state with papers from an attorney.  Provisions had to be made for your sister and brother – because they came first and he had been shunned.  But you had HIM…should’ve taken the signatures….millions gone w a drop of ink.

Your mother was a meek farm girl from the south, but, damn…she looked good.  She clung to him as the acrid smell of tobacco drying in that oppressive southern heat was too much to deal with once she hit the big city.

Fathering the first time around was rough, the second time around proved impossible.  Then you went to a caring family so she could focus on her husband, because that’s what good Bible belt girls do. They were abusive in quiet ways that family…ways that no one could really discuss.

His shit got together for a stretch and a new house in suburbia would change everything.  In one car ride to the country any stability you had was gone.  Pretty roses planted around a split fence…that was all that stayed pretty.  The southern blushing belle faded and bottle after bottle got emptied.  He had a little repair shop…Tomorrows service Today….sometime next week….or when this bender was over.

Car after car smashed but those were the good old days, you could crash your car, slap your wife, humiliate the kids and the cops told you to sleep it off.

But time rolls into time – children grow up and only then learn what could’ve been done, what should’ve been done.  Mom was to blame, why didn’t she step in?  Why did she let him sign those provisions away?  That could’ve been YOU in law school…touring Europe…marrying old money…leaving provisions to the Mid-West University your whole family graduated from.   You resented your mother – she should’ve been strong and should’ve looked out for her children.

So you met a woman that did and you married her, but that destructive gene expressed itself.

And now you resent her for stepping in, stepping up, speaking out for your own flesh and blood.  After all…the kids have YOU, don’t they?  Not really.  You have a new family, new house, new life…

Recall….

You married a girl.

You divorced a warrior.

She will satisfy those longings.  She will step in and do what should be done and if you look deep enough, peel back enough, you’ll realize the universe has granted you your greatest wish. 

Thunder/Buck Moon

July 10, 2017 2:31AM

I woke up with a start and looked at my phone 2:31.  I still had a few hours before the M-F
 grind would start.  I had a good Sunday; kayaked, replenished the house supplies, cooked a few trays of food, loads of wash and cleaned.  And yet something was nagging me and the fact that I was up with a start ready to roll was a definite indication that there was far too much activity going on cerebrally.  My brain can be like an overactive child, afraid of the boogie man in the closet – only the closet happens to be a cluster of pockets in my brain that demand to have their say.   

The moon cares not of the inconvenience for it only follows its ancient path.

Up with a start with nowhere to hide, I could’ve lit some candles and retreated to an exhausting hot bath…but the damp cool swamp breeze tempted all of me.   Like a cat, I drifted down the stairs and out the door.  There is a secret way to open the oppressive front door that is completely silent.  It swung like a dream and the front grass and wet street were aglow with the archaic light of a Thunder/Buck Moon.

It’s amazing how your being can remove you immediately from civilization, as if it’s had enough and overrides your civilized self.  So there I was; barefoot on damp grass, blue eyes oddly catlike in their seeing and slowly savoring the night air.  As the sounds of the realm around me settled and triaged themselves in my brain, I was became aware of what many would think of as the screams of a woman being tortured.  I’m feral enough to understand that these were not punishing intermittent blows delivered by a jealous lover.  They were the rhythmic screams of a fox in mating.  I smiled in the night as the fox reveals itself quite readily to me at the oddest of times.  It was far off, behind the tumorous strip mall, beyond the house with no purpose and to the glen in the crook of the stream across the way.  I had the urge to call back, I also had the urge to walk naked in the shadows the moon had cast- both of which I viciously longed for, then vetoed.  

Still human.

I decided I needed a reason to be out should anyone see me, or mention it.  An alibi? How absolutely ridiculous and delicious – but it’s where my mind was.  There had recently been sightings of tow trucks in the development and at $300 a pop for 24 hours (should they take your vehicle) and the impound a mere 7 min walk from the development; I reasoned car keys would make sense.  Back in I went and grabbed my son’s keys – he is notorious for illegal parking.  Keys in hand like a shield, should anyone wonder what I was doing out at such an hour, I began to walk barefoot.  

The concrete walk illuminated under my bare feet from the moons reflection.  I fell in love with the way my feet looked under that light - sure, sturdy, wandering.  The sky was clear and the backbone of the mountain past the swamp visible.  I walked through the night, through the neighborhood.  I paused at the dark quarry, silent like a quagmire crater of dropped and fragmented dreams.  No movement; just black stones, black water, and a drab landscape.  I walked through the common yards and noticed the garish light of some forgotten TV’s.  I recalled the stations of snow from my childhood when the networks would log off, sadly nothing logs off anymore.  

But was I not doing just that? 

I felt so oddly alone, yet so unbelievably connected to the true realm; the billions of leaves that swayed an watched me, the ground with its varying dampness and light, the earthen smells rising from patches of dirt, the air and the intrinsic scent of still water, swamp water, dew, and rain.  The foxes tortured consistent cadence, like music, screaming into the night.  

I held the keys tight as I didn’t want to hear them clink.  I did not desire not one human sound.  

Earlier that evening I meditated with intention for the full moon.  Among the many things that I wished to draw down and into my life was a sense of strong connection to the earth.  

The night delivered.  

It would have been better had I obeyed my organic indigenous nature and bared not only my soul, but my white freckled body and lay naked in the damp grass under that moon and breathed.  I also intended land of my own one day.  I know that is on its way….

However…until its delivery…

Still Human

A Fall

They are downing trees on my ride to work for a conglomerate of sorts, a facility to test things when the forest would surely know best.  You can feel them crying.  Palpable.  Stripped and naked.  An unknown roadside holocaust.  The emotion bleeds into the pavement like watered down sap; silent and slow.

Clock reversed; paper, pulp, solid strong branches in prayer to the ceiling; passed the dome, into the stars.

What keeps us from falling?  Like a sheaf of papers, sliding from a desk to a bottomless floor,  What keeps?

Morning.  I walk into work.

Quiet.

Only my footsteps under lights that never dim, lights that hum in my head over the grid of the floor and I think; 'Why do humans fall?'

Not the trip, the misstep, but the fall...within.  Just stop, like a clock that cannot wind, like a dawn that never shows.  Just the fall into darkness, into the universe of themselves.

Stars explode.  We implode.

And I hear my footsteps, my small body like a machine, a mechanism, a freestanding cog with things to do - tasks at hand.  And I pause.  Just a pause.  Yet it's so seductive, covert, and deviant. this pause.

And it's as if I could stop the planet spinning in this moment - admit defeat and surrender to the lights that make us mad; rabid.  Surrender to the glossy floor that can be mopped, sterilized, wiped clean of me as if I never laid completely open upon it.  Surrender to the tasks that would get reassigned in the void that I would become.  A small delay.  A small inconvenience.  A small body that, one day, just fell.

Then procession.  Clock ticking 

I breathe twice; feeling the ocean of my body ebb and flow, aware of the oxygen/blood exchange - an ancient dance of existence that I am not the least bit in control of.  This vessel with this brain that is always seeking to exploit the dark crevasses, like the God forsaken false prophets of the false lights overhead.  

My shoulders square, perhaps the last time...I am unsure.  I step forward from my pause; into my day, into faith, into a mask, as if I, too, were mindless and without the awareness of suffering.

Connect nonetheless 

Namaste

The Girl in The Pic

The other day I was going through a box of pictures.  Pictures can be difficult for me because the second they are taken, everything can change.  Still, I wanted to send some to my step daughter and went into the task with the mindset that it would only take a few minutes.  I came across the above photo quite by chance as it was in a folder and I simply opened it.  It gave me pause.  Like a time traveler I sat on the floor of my walk-in closet suspended in a portal of sorts.  I’m not sure how much time went by, but I carefully closed the folder, picked up the pictures that I had gathered for Jen, and went about my day.  Oh but the seen can never be unseen, can it?  A day or so later around 2AM, in a lucid dream, this came out…

The girl in that pic was trying to hold it all together, trying to hold herself together.  She was riddled with doubt; of love, of herself, of everything. The only joy coming through in that time and space was that of the children.

The girl in that pic had no idea of the fire that lay dormant; a tartan gift of DNA – a strength that would be summoned one day.  In her soul, that girl stood barefooted on a rocky crag in the shallows of an ancient sea.  The fine salted sprays would mist her freckled face and gently rouse a sleeping warrior.

The girl in that pic had not a clue that she could battle for the children as fiercely against the man she had loved just as fiercely the day she created them with him.

The girl in that pic didn’t see the derailment coming, did not understand that she was already prepared in ways she couldn’t believe existed.  She didn’t yet see the decisive bargaining she would do with her soul on a Jewelers mat, her dusty gems laid before her on a velvet pillow ready to be sold.  She didn’t yet expect the stirring of inner wisdom that was to come as she realized there wasn’t a price to be had for such treasures.  She didn’t see her hand as she scooped them back into her pockets, knowing she would take them to the grave.  She hadn’t yet decided that she could not be haggled and purchased.

The girl in that pic could never have imagined the toil, the work, the lessons that lay ahead.  She had never prepared for the course of learning to care for oneself and two other little souls.  Overtime they would not just be her children; they  would be known as her cosmic responsibility – one that she would take very seriously.  She couldn’t imagine she would work by day and provide, and then work and again domestically to cook and clean and pay attention, for she would intrinsically understand that attention was very important with these souls.  And that in her future she would  come home exhausted, fearing nothing left to give them . She would take a moment, close the bathroom door and stand before the mirror, then look into her own eyes and whisper, “Crisy, pay attention, this is the important time.” And she would face them refreshed.

The girl in that pic could not see the example she would set as far as education was concerned – did not realize then that in 10 yrs time her own words would be echoed back to her; ‘Mom I want something for myself, I know I need an education.’

The girl in that pic couldn’t dream of the navigation that would ensue to keep little men from mis-stepping.  Attention to friends, situations, influences, and thoughts, as constant as the tide and then the day she would be relieved of this duty as they would watch out for one another.

The girl in that pic couldn’t fathom gulping down panic attacks while trying to smile, or the insomnia that would plague her like a dark unwelcome guest.  And when she did sleep she would have the same dreams over and over and over, each time running forward while terror nipped at her heels.

The girl in that pic didn’t know her future, soon to be past; the moment it was realized would present itself as a tangles ball of string that would slowly be sorted.  She didn’t know of the repressive visions that would come without refuge in sight.  The civil rights that were impinged on, that only became clear in their gravity as time moved forward.  She couldn’t see herself as strong, only scared.  Outwardly she smiled.  Inside she was a running cacophony of musical horror.

The girl in that pic walked blindly forward into her life, into herself, with only the intuitive energy of her ancestors and the angels guiding her.

The girl in that pic could not see herself twelve years in the future looking down at that photo.  She did not yet know the mature, capable, grateful and humble woman she would evolve into.  The woman who would run her fingertips over that photo in a gesture of love and whisper, “I remember you.”  She would not have been able to conceive that twelve years in the future she would have a strong ally that she would meet; someone who would admire her for the strength that she (at that time) was unaware of.  A future self that would forgive her mistakes, pray her through insomnia, and love the children that became men.

The girl in that pic didn’t feel loved and couldn’t comprehend that somewhere in her tomorrows, she already was.  She didn’t know, couldn’t possibly see that it would be SHE who would reassure herself and look upon herself twelve years down the line.  She didn’t know, while frozen in that picture, that moment, that mindset; that it would be her own hand extending kindness and love, her own hand that would reach through to bring her home.  It would be her own voice, older, wiser, that would whisper through tears of Self Love, “You did everything right, because we are still here, and look at these boys…It all turned out just fine, better than fine.  You did a great job, I’ve got this now My Love…

And by the way my darling, the answer you were searching for is YES – It was worth it.”

Namaste.

Truth Tears

Woke up again today with a face wet from tears.  Its been an uneventful slow release I suppose - like a swimming pool in its last season, finally disassembled, the water long syphoned but some spills still.

The dream had me in yet a different house with a different version of you.  The mask was a slight of face, as disguises go, but in the frivolity of the party - the voice and the eyes remained; giving you away.

I was pleading for love from you.  The proverbial party had ended and the lights had come on. Shadows bled back in and the results were garish.  Why did it have to end? I had carried versions of you in my belly, infinitely making you more in the fabric of eternity - the greatest gift I could bestow upon one.  I used to look at you sideways teeming with love and desire - a sultry eddy during the long August heat.  It had gone as quickly as it had come - a flash flood that left me barren, cracked and slacked in the sun.

I was begging.

The last episode like this was gauzy and light, an original exoneration of faith and forgiveness. This one is heavy,  like watching the dirt being shoveled over the casket.  But it's just as important, so that would be the faith I suppose, the process of letting this all go.

Time doesn't mend, not really. Time sorts, organizes, archives.  And I've come to realize we never keep time, no, it is time that keeps us - then we are up for soul parole.

Our experience was one.  Our experiences were so personal that we became strangers.  Perhaps it visits you?  Somewhere in me I like to think you, too, wake up wet faced, but I know the Truth.  You push it aside to survive - I invite it in for tea.  Our minds were never going to meet with that one.

And therein lies my one true love - my cursed blessing...Truth.

Ancient Epochs led me here.  The journey an accelerated yet tiresome one with dark rest stops along its path.   A Repetitive Redemptive, Renewing.  This is not the human experience - take it down a notch - this is your experience.  Connected yet Individualized so much so that you are a bird over the vast sea seeking land.

Truth seekers understand the carrion of flesh, the degeneration of the temporary ground.  Truth is the fodder that brings us home to ourselves and the Void.  We are the Star Warriors.  Truth is our sword, our wound, our birth, our burial.

Ahh  I see.  Truth Tears.  That's what they were - I knew I'd come upon the answer.  Toxins out - Peace within.  Your vessel has its intelligence.  Trust its Truth.  Sometimes there is no why, there is only acceptance.

Conquer by continuing.
Namaste

Momentum

mo·men·tum

mōˈmen(t)əm,məˈmen(t)əm/

noun

1. 1.

   PHYSICS

   the quantity of motion of a moving body, measured as a product of its mass and velocity.
2. 2.

   the impetus gained by a moving object.

   "the vehicle gained momentum as the road dipped"

In my life it has been a constant effort, a consistent monitoring of thought to reel myself in from the efforts of worry.  Many journals ago my time span became shorter.  My vision from being a married secure woman went from 'Where we will be in 10, 20 years?' to Where am I right now? And are we OK right now in this moment?  It has been an adjustment for someone who always had (at the very least) a 5 year plan...

I remember writing very late one evening as my thoughts were rolling like a freight train 'Focus on right now - this is all we have.  Right now.'  I was worried about when my children got older, when I would find work that paid enough, when I would find love, companionship, or at the very least a satisfying physical connection.  I was trading the days peace for a future no one could guess.  So I made it shorter; where did I want to be in a week, a month, and maybe a year.  Time will always pass and I've found to fully be present in the moment is a gift and to work in the moment, toward what you believe a goal is, truly creates momentum.  

The past few months I was without momentum, I was floating; drifting.  I was planning when I should have been dreaming.  My mind has always been my greatest gift - and without dreaming there can be no vision, and without vision there can be no planning and without planning there can be no realization.

If this seems like a contradiction - it is.  Although I have goals, I am attempting to have them in the absence of worry.  Worry will rob you like a thief that leaves no trace until you realize what was taken. Stress steals productive energy that could create the life you want, the world you need, the lover you desire.  I have been training myself that I cannot know peace without stress and worry - but I must simply observe these things like a fire, yet feed them no fodder. For when fed they grow into terrible beasts.

Rumi once wrote 'Yesterday I was clever; I wanted to change the world.  Today I am wise, I want to change myself.'   Like a garden that needs tilling so the weeds don't dominate, I find my mind needs pruning, weeding, watering - and consistent effort.  And only then can I move forward.  

Today I scrubbed my floor on my hands and knees because it needed it and that resulted in a clean floor, which resulted in clean wood cabinets, which resulted in a clean room ready for major changes.  Such is the physical that leads to the mental in even exchange.  I feel a great readying.  Out with the old, in with the new.  

I am ready.  The mind is a constant effort and surpasses all of space and time, or perhaps it is all of space and time - perhaps there is no separation of such and that is the true enlightenment.  

Balance to you

Namaste

Not That Girl Anymore

You've much going on and it's wonderful, but you do not get to toss frustration and exasperation around like rag dolls.  If your schedule is full that is no one's doing but your own.  Embrace it however you like, but know the child in me won't become quite, wont hide from your inconsistency.  I stand in balance.  I do not need to be spectator to you imbalance.  I used to be that girl that thought she was deserving of such witness.  I'm not that girl anymore.

You do not get the opportunity to speak to me with forked tongue, acidic words, and false smiles then ask me to join you in social graces, non-accountability,  and niceties as though I am to absorb what did not take place.  I'm not that girl anymore.  I used to be but realized I had a choice; it is again I choose, I'm not that girl anymore.

I sweated and prayed and blocked off time at 2AM to fill my brain, to gut my soul my heart with learning - to have an achievement that I could call mine.  Everyday I carry that deep inside and view it on my wall in my soul's sanctuary.   All my cells bright with photons of that light. Seconds, minutes, hours of life for anything less than what I deserve is a desrespect to self.  I'm not that girl that cannot palpate her worth anymore.  I wear it, I own it, I honor it, I drink it at every dawn and spew ink.  I used to be that girl; the one that traded her time with the Universe, the lakes, the trees, sun and moonlight for pennies.  I'm not that girl anymore.

I am not a being of smoke and mirrors.  I am authentic, organic and true.  My peace is not linked - it does not come from outside of me, it isn't achieved by proxy to anyplace, anything, anyone.  Not anymore, not ever again, that girl is gone.  She's just not with us anymore.

Like a piece of rough silver incarnate, the Universe polishes me.  God holds me up to the light - my face is not yet revealed but the shadows are more defined with every lesson, every challenge.  You were part of this cosmic alchemy, and for that I can call you nothing but friend and say nothing but thank you.  Peace to you on your journey.

Namaste

Metaphor Dreaming...

4/09/16 - 04:05AM

I woke up with a bubble of crying in my voice.  I was so bewildered that I grabbed my notebook and began to write the entire dream as I remembered - then I went back and filled in the explanations to make it readable to a mind other than my own.  What follows is the most reduced version of self and the need to study and attempt to understand my mind - the matter above the matter.  Sometimes it's maddening - sometimes I'm a simple observer to my own existence just trying to see myself, not in the eyes of now, but in the eyes of what has always been and what will always be while surrendering to the now...

Can you dream in a metaphor?  I believe I just did...

My Godmother Marguerite's house.  This is the house that has held everyone I have ever truly loved without question without provocation.  It was empty and white and hollow - readying for a transfer of ownership - but the ghosts were all there; those dead, those alive.


Cut to my marital home - the one I strove to mimic my Godmother's - complete with yard, lavish parties, orchestrated holidays.  My room was at the top of the stairs - my boys were young, very young and playing outside in the sun - it streamed through my window. then dusk seemed to come suddenly throwing shadows everywhere and my ex-husband (Bill) was walking up the stairs with my Godfather Bill.  They were laughing but only my ex-husband came into the room.  He was there to pick up the boys and we had reached a polite stage of communication - as if we were simple acquaintances and hadn't cosmically collided at any point creating two human beings and enmeshing our lives for a spell in the story of eternity.  We had become strangers - but there was always an unspoken horror between us post divorce.

We had tried a few times to right things - days before the gavel fell and for about a year after -living separately.  It had been an endless game of cat and mouse; when he wanted to reconcile I would resist - bypassing the urge, knowing I loved him but not being able to trust him.  And then I had moments when I wanted to run back to the safety I thought he was, but I would wait it out.  I believe it was the same for him.  At any time we could've fallen back into those patterns- life grooves from a dull needle on a very worn record, and the unspoken horror could've taken up residence in the marriage.

"I wanted to talk to you" I said.

"About what Chris? Marriage?" he laughed 'you want to get remarried?' he chuckled with that small boyish look that begged 'don't reject me,'  'don't leave me like my mother did'... but I had already had, hadn't I?

But it was that little boy look that got me every time.  The hurt little boy that grew into the hurt man - that little boy I see in my own little boys, rejected by his mother and as a result he would preemptively, unconsciously, make certain he would always have an out in any relationship.  He would make certain he fucked them up first - whether the women knew it or not.  And when they did find out (because a pattern is a pattern) he really wasn't that surprised and somehow able to remain solid and table each marriage, each relationship as an acquaintance that never truly got all that close anyway.

In my dream I consciously said 'No, but I am getting married.'  I let that sink in.  He closed his eyes like one that had been dealt a death blow - like someone or something they truly loved just ceased to exist.  On his closed thin eyelids in the shadows of blues from dusk I witnessed all the pain he had lived, he had caused, he had carried - all in one moment.  It was overwhelming, even for someone with a hard heart, such as I had cultured.  So I verbally stumbled on...

"I met someone, I knew him when I was younger - he lives in Oregon and is in conservation engineering, (In my dream this registered true - though in conscious life it is not) 'You know I love that stuff (In dream registered true) He has a little boy (In dream registered true) Our boys will be the big brothers - they love him, it's an easy fit, we are leaving next week.

He looked at me and smiled defeat.  'Well then there's no competition Chris.  I can't compete with that."

"You see' I said 'that's the problem.  He's a great guy ( I was holding a pic of him in my hand) and I do care for him deeply..but...when I tell him I love him it doesn't ring true.  Not really.  It's true that I love him, but not with the depth, the ALL that I loved you with - that I still love you with, that I will ALWAYS love you with.'  He hugged me and I broke a bit.  And in my dream I only saw my own face streaming with tears.  "I loved you so much.  Why did you hurt me?  I still love you but I can't be with you  - yet I want to be sometimes.  This guy deserves someone who loves him like that - someone that can say it with their ALL.  I can't say those words to him, I never will be able to because there is still you.  I miss you.  I miss you so much sometimes - the dumb shit we used to do.  Even if on your side it wasn't ever real - but for me it was!  It was REAL. Regret gathered in my soul with the deafening roar of acceptance.

Then I was standing in my Godmothers kitchen.  It was large and white - a big galley.  I was buying it, or she was giving it to me.  But it was empty.  So very empty.  And so white, and it was just me there all alone.  I thought of all the people I loved that it had held.  The parties, the gatherings, the dinners.  You can never re-create that.  It's not a set.

Your moments must be organic connections - real - spontaneous - and maybe you only get them for a little while.  Maybe true love is like serotonin - when over fired it can deplete, but you're human. You're always gonna chase it but you know it's never as good as the first time.  It's never as good as the real love and moments, and the trickery is you don't always know what the real moments are  until you have a 'set' of engineered ones to compare them with.

There in lies the wistful truth, yes? The knowing. The terror of the knowing.

Best to believe every moment has the potential to be THE moment; the moment of love, of honesty, of truth, of happiness.  Don't worry about the hard moments so much. Believe me, you'll rack those up - but remember that your cosmic DNA dictates that you survive - that you walk exposed, get sliced, bleed, and repair.

Make the choice.  Choose to remain open.  Great hurt is only known while standing next to excruciating JOY.  Great Forgiveness is only achieved when you acknowledge regret and begin the practice of forgiveness within your own heart.

The beauty is not over until it is,  and even then you may not realize your life as the truly magnificent celestial breath that it was.  SO BELIEVE IT IS NOW.

Great Sadness and fear can strike at anytime but if you should find yourself in the throes of it KNOW WITH EVERY FIBER OF YOUR BEING GREAT JOY AND LOVE CAN STRIKE ANYTIME AS WELL. You can never truly know one without the other.  So cry. And wait. And pray the hard stuff down because the good stuff can't be far from you.  Its a balance through the Epochs - through the seed of the dream that everything began with.

I looked a the galley kitchen that was to be mine.  I saw the keys in my little girl hands and put them on the counter.  I took a slow last look, heard the echoes that once were and the stillness that is now.  I turned to the arch way that lead to the door where the sun was so bright I may've been walking into the sky.

Some things we should never see as empty.

Today is here
Namaste

Sacred Spaces

I've been under the weather for about a week now.  Heaviness in the chest, coughing uncontrollably and a low grade fever.  After the initial 'flat on my back' rest I began to climb the walls.  I think I've read 5 books total.  A mind forced down is a chaotic neighborhood for sure.

I dug out some old writing that I did about 3 years ago (much of it on a graveyard shift at a job I no longer work) and I have to say it was like seeing an old friend.  It was a practice in meditation - creating a vision of something, based on nowhere I had ever been - truly creative.  It was a work of solitude both in writing it and the character it reflected.  It could've been considered sexual in some areas but it was tasteful, or at least that's how I reflected upon it.  I also pulled out old journals and read about when I went back to school and all of the hope in which that time frame contained, and it made me smile.  Memories, dreams, and fears in ink.  My favorite.

I seem to be in a holding pattern and beginning to wake up a bit more like me.  Damn you time change - you man made parameter that disrupts my primal clock.  4:30 seems to be the current wake time in that simmering pre dawn hint.  I wake and because of my congestion I pad downstairs to make a cup of very strong Irish Breakfast tea, I feed the animals (more than I'd like to admit right now - well, who am I kidding? we are keeping every animal in this house) and then I take refuge in my room,  It has become my space in that last 2 months and everything in it reflects that from the photos of my boys and kayak photos to the Himalayan salt shards, to lush plants,

to my degrees, to the art I've dabbled with (the site DeviantArt has become an obsession), to hanging scarves, to the hidden poster  (The Walking Dead) nabbed at a Walker Stalker convention after kicking myself for not buying it at Comic-Con the year before (Oh yeah I'm one of those),  It's hidden because when I sit in my chair in the corner the poster is hung on the side of the armoire - so only I can see it.  I love the iconic image - everything went to hell and the only sounds;  a man's thoughts, hopes, and horse hooves.  Yes, yes, and yes.

To the weird thrift jewelry that takes turns on my walls, and let's not forget my totem/spirit animal (fox) which is everywhere.

It's a lovely place and I find the felines under my care prefer this room over all others in this large townhouse.  The windows are always open, at least a crack, I despise stale air and would rather have a cold front come in than settle for stagnant breathing.  The wind sounded like a tide in the dark early this morning and there are snowflakes now dancing in the sun.  My tiny wind chime hangs between the windows that face the swamp and they hang from one of my mothers old rosary beads, the crucifix long lost. The crystal on the end splays bits of concentrated light around the dark walls making the cats stare in wonder.

Another thing I have noticed is that I have relaxed significantly into this space.  I think it has to do with a shift I had regarding the temporary view I've held of my home.  It was spawned of fear.

When you are afraid (or at least when I am) of losing something you tend to disassociate from it a bit. I believe that's what I did for a while.  Money was so tight and I was running with fear that I was afraid to truly love this space or commit to it on an energetic level.  I don't really know what happened, I mean money is still tight and a constant pain in the ass balance sheet in my head, but I've leaned into where I am.  I've owned the place for 11 years now.  Odd, I know, but that's the way it went and once I decided to do what I liked with it as opposed to what I thought it should look like (which is exactly what my magazine worthy marital home was - I see old pics and think it was lovely about as lovely as a nice funeral home) I began to achieve a level of comfort.  I'm a gypsy at heart, a Boho chick by way of druid forest kind of girl, more at home out of a house than in one.

But I finally feel at home.  Oh believe me, I've had different love for this place but never this level of Inner comfort.  It's quite surprising and lovely.  I'm still restless inside, still working for things, still walking through fear most days with my sword  - I don't think that will ever leave me.  So somewhere in the middle, for a few hours here and there, I relax.

This morning found me up, writing, then settling in with my laptop.  I dabbled with my Youtube video subscriptions - Brothers Green Eats, Tiny Home Giant Journey, Relax Shacks, Seeker Stories, River Cottage, Ana White, Exploring Alternatives, Kirsten Dirksen, Peak Moment and Cold Antler - just to name a few.  I have a long day ahead of me as a few things got pushed off until I felt better.  But this morning I had a sacred time, alone with the break of day - cloistered in a space that cradled me - I wish the same for you.

Sacred Spaces
Namaste

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