Critic
I’m racing. Out of breath. Striving for the finish line. Then I can celebrate right? Then I can feel like I’ve accomplished something. Like I deserve a prize. Like I’m worthy. I think I’ve missed the point. Somewhere along the way. Many points. And options and opportunities. Keeping my nose down and my eyes on the goal, I’ve missed so much on the path. Jokes on me now, because that was the point. All the points. Pointing to possibility. To infinity. To my happiness.
I was just following the crowd. Everyone else was doing it. No one was happy with what is. There’s always something to wish to be different. If he was more emotionally responsible. If she would just keep up with my pace. If I had more money, more time, more love. Decades spent chasing tails. My own tail somehow held a promise of completion. Like the snake that devours itself. His tail too but it was a different kind of completion. Like stuffing a turkey and giving thanks for a full belly. Like taking in his seed and producing a human. Like opening the doors to my broken inner children and feeding them cake. But the turkey just put me to sleep and the baby brought an onslaught of needs to fill and the inner children ate too much cake and threw up on my organs.
I can’t seek my own wholeness through another. I can’t keep giving my torch to this parade of fools in hopes that they will light my way home. They have their own balls to juggle and throwing mine at them only distracts them from their game. There’s a fire in my belly where I can burn my own distaste and ignite my own dance. And it’s alright if I drop one here and there, or spin another backwards because I am my own choreographer and each step is created in the moment with whatever inspiration is present. There is no wrong way and no one can judge my performance unless I give them the number cards. Besides, I’m my own worst critic anyways.
I was just following the crowd. Everyone else was doing it. No one was happy with what is. There’s always something to wish to be different. If he was more emotionally responsible. If she would just keep up with my pace. If I had more money, more time, more love. Decades spent chasing tails. My own tail somehow held a promise of completion. Like the snake that devours itself. His tail too but it was a different kind of completion. Like stuffing a turkey and giving thanks for a full belly. Like taking in his seed and producing a human. Like opening the doors to my broken inner children and feeding them cake. But the turkey just put me to sleep and the baby brought an onslaught of needs to fill and the inner children ate too much cake and threw up on my organs.
I can’t seek my own wholeness through another. I can’t keep giving my torch to this parade of fools in hopes that they will light my way home. They have their own balls to juggle and throwing mine at them only distracts them from their game. There’s a fire in my belly where I can burn my own distaste and ignite my own dance. And it’s alright if I drop one here and there, or spin another backwards because I am my own choreographer and each step is created in the moment with whatever inspiration is present. There is no wrong way and no one can judge my performance unless I give them the number cards. Besides, I’m my own worst critic anyways.
Thinking In French
I am not linear or smooth or even tidy. I have some tattered edges sometimes and my words fall short of the point on occasion. Spirals pull me back around though and my feet find the rhythm more often than not. Not always and not…
What draws me through the portal into exaltation and surrender? I’m listening. I hear better with my right ear, I think. At least my vision is stable. Or is it? Maybe I’m seeing through lenses so familiar I’ve forgotten they are there. Strong and unbreakable, they’ve held up my perceptions for decades. And what I see, I believe. And what I believe, I create, And what I create I know. And what I know I see and believe and create some more. Is this some kind of hamster wheel, rolling me over and around but keeping me locked up without my knowledge? What if I try up instead of forward? What if I believe in something before I can see it? Like money raining from trees or grand sailing adventures or epic orgasmic surrender? Like a new car or a capable lover or a perky ass? Like freedom to be or clarity in creativity or a fully sovereign posture.
I trip over my own words. The ones that are on automatic, generic repeat. The ones that I didn’t even decide on. Passed down. It’s hard to be a prosperous artist. It’s hard to find a good guy. It’s hard to mother a teenager. It’s hard to feel good enough. Maybe I should try thinking in French. It could be possible. Or miraculous. Since I didn’t learn enough French. No. Non. Je ne sais pas s’il vous plait.
I want to twist the cords inside my brain. Recode them with different colors and bundle the good ones together so they run in the right direction and give a clear picture with surround sound. Surround my heart. Squeeze me. So I can let go. Hold me. So I can be. So I can deflate. I’m stretched. Too long. Too tall. Too flat. Too quiet. Too easy. Too lazy. Too distracted. Too…
Too much sideways noise. Other peoples perceptions. Pulling my limbs and stretching me more. I give up. It’s all just noise.
What draws me through the portal into exaltation and surrender? I’m listening. I hear better with my right ear, I think. At least my vision is stable. Or is it? Maybe I’m seeing through lenses so familiar I’ve forgotten they are there. Strong and unbreakable, they’ve held up my perceptions for decades. And what I see, I believe. And what I believe, I create, And what I create I know. And what I know I see and believe and create some more. Is this some kind of hamster wheel, rolling me over and around but keeping me locked up without my knowledge? What if I try up instead of forward? What if I believe in something before I can see it? Like money raining from trees or grand sailing adventures or epic orgasmic surrender? Like a new car or a capable lover or a perky ass? Like freedom to be or clarity in creativity or a fully sovereign posture.
I trip over my own words. The ones that are on automatic, generic repeat. The ones that I didn’t even decide on. Passed down. It’s hard to be a prosperous artist. It’s hard to find a good guy. It’s hard to mother a teenager. It’s hard to feel good enough. Maybe I should try thinking in French. It could be possible. Or miraculous. Since I didn’t learn enough French. No. Non. Je ne sais pas s’il vous plait.
I want to twist the cords inside my brain. Recode them with different colors and bundle the good ones together so they run in the right direction and give a clear picture with surround sound. Surround my heart. Squeeze me. So I can let go. Hold me. So I can be. So I can deflate. I’m stretched. Too long. Too tall. Too flat. Too quiet. Too easy. Too lazy. Too distracted. Too…
Too much sideways noise. Other peoples perceptions. Pulling my limbs and stretching me more. I give up. It’s all just noise.
Phosphorescence
He misses my softness. I miss his openness, his kisses, his fearlessness. I want to be his prize. I want to lay bare the recesses of my intentions for him to caress, moving his reach towards the sparkle in my eyes and the giggle in my throat as we dance through the ocean spray on the waves of his dream. The moment is always a crossroads, inviting footfall along a path of exhaling surety while also enticing a dance in the direction of familiarity.
Deflating dreams once full and ripe are punctured by the sharp voices of the past and shards of doubt, but the music is so loud and the beat so strong, it drowns out their power. And so we bump our hips to recalibrate our senses to the rhythm of the Mother. We feel the tickle of horns and cymbals balance through our arms and fingers as the fulcrum at our hearts resounds in time.
We are here to throw care to the floorboards to be swept along in the frenzy of the moment, to allow magic to guide our hands and eyes and lips, sharing lightning in the perfection of our Yes! I can trust the vast expanse of holy water with a pirate at my helm. His gaze first found mine on dry land so I could not mistake my swoon for the pull of the moon. And his natural swagger and care was received with many smiles among the crowd of revelers, beloveds who hold my trust in their small, zippered pockets. And even the phosphorescence joined in the celebration, sparkling through my fingers as he carried me out to sea, to share his utter appreciation of her beauty, her healing, her presence.
His passion is so profound, the fire in my throat ignites and meets his shore in a cacophony of hissing steam and birthing land as his gravity pulls me into orbit, where I spin and swoon and smile. All the lost intentions and burning desires well up in my throat, toning through in a song of release as I surrender to my creation and fall into him.
Deflating dreams once full and ripe are punctured by the sharp voices of the past and shards of doubt, but the music is so loud and the beat so strong, it drowns out their power. And so we bump our hips to recalibrate our senses to the rhythm of the Mother. We feel the tickle of horns and cymbals balance through our arms and fingers as the fulcrum at our hearts resounds in time.
We are here to throw care to the floorboards to be swept along in the frenzy of the moment, to allow magic to guide our hands and eyes and lips, sharing lightning in the perfection of our Yes! I can trust the vast expanse of holy water with a pirate at my helm. His gaze first found mine on dry land so I could not mistake my swoon for the pull of the moon. And his natural swagger and care was received with many smiles among the crowd of revelers, beloveds who hold my trust in their small, zippered pockets. And even the phosphorescence joined in the celebration, sparkling through my fingers as he carried me out to sea, to share his utter appreciation of her beauty, her healing, her presence.
His passion is so profound, the fire in my throat ignites and meets his shore in a cacophony of hissing steam and birthing land as his gravity pulls me into orbit, where I spin and swoon and smile. All the lost intentions and burning desires well up in my throat, toning through in a song of release as I surrender to my creation and fall into him.
A Rhythm Only I Can Dance to
Steady mesmerizing tones pull together the elements that are required for blastoff. Pushing through deep seated conditioning and ancient patterns allows for the fullness of my being to shine through, glimmering in the moonlight, or a knowing gaze, or a heavy watt bulb. Why am I so afraid to step into the limelight? Unconscious conclusions based on misconstrued experiences and misperceived intentions cradle the basin of my hips as I shy away.
I never even considered it to be okay to look silly or do things in a strange way or show up different. Maybe that's why I've always held a longing to do so. I liked being called weird even though I didn't truly own it. Or maybe that was just my inner justification for being an outcast. They knew I was broken, that's why they rejected me. That's why my best friend broke our friendship with no clear explanation at the end of seventh grade, right before we went into high school. Once accepted by the popular kids, I was then shunned and felt I only belonged with the other losers, the other broken people.
I want to break through my broken, to push out of this cage of defeat, to claim these pieces as beautiful and display them on a platform lifted by grace and painted with the feathers of my tattered wings. I want to bare the insides of my ribs, turning my chest inside out to breathe backwards and feel safe in the knowledge that my feet touch the soil that nourishes my present with the death of my past. And my tongue sings the truth of my spirit shining through the desolation of this lie of separation to take root in the wisdom of this heartbeat, sounding a rhythm only I can dance to.
I never even considered it to be okay to look silly or do things in a strange way or show up different. Maybe that's why I've always held a longing to do so. I liked being called weird even though I didn't truly own it. Or maybe that was just my inner justification for being an outcast. They knew I was broken, that's why they rejected me. That's why my best friend broke our friendship with no clear explanation at the end of seventh grade, right before we went into high school. Once accepted by the popular kids, I was then shunned and felt I only belonged with the other losers, the other broken people.
I want to break through my broken, to push out of this cage of defeat, to claim these pieces as beautiful and display them on a platform lifted by grace and painted with the feathers of my tattered wings. I want to bare the insides of my ribs, turning my chest inside out to breathe backwards and feel safe in the knowledge that my feet touch the soil that nourishes my present with the death of my past. And my tongue sings the truth of my spirit shining through the desolation of this lie of separation to take root in the wisdom of this heartbeat, sounding a rhythm only I can dance to.
Legacy
There's a solidarity in the rain this morning, in the cringing caused by the sharp, winter breeze. Grey permeates everything. The once vibrant jungle life teeming with possibility is now shocked with hues of grey.
I want so much to be strong. To hold her in my highest vision and her divine regard. But my eyes are drowning and my throat is locked in a battle with the facts that are present in this moment. Today is the day. I'll never forget her face as she crumpled to the floor when she realized what would happen today.
Beautiful and tortured. Green eyes filled with so much wisdom and care, a smile that ignites my heart fire and a voice that resonates with the deepest parts of my soul. We've had our time and now she's off to share her gifts with others. Women with even deeper wounds who need her spark so much more. And we'll write.
She'll write. We'll all continue to write. And grow. And show up. And love. And hug. And stretch. And give. And dance. And laugh. And breathe. And trust. And know. And believe. We'll continue to expand in our truth and our faith, knitting this family tighter and tighter as we explore our shadows and fall in love with our willingness and our courage, soaring high together on wings of integrity.
Her legacy is strong. A powerful warrioress who graced us with her potent wisdom and resounding honor and unshakable faith. An inspiration to all who were blessed to receive her. And as this rain drips from the leaves, washing away the dust of yesterday, so too will my tears cleanse my heart, clearing the way for an ever brighter light to shine forth, illuminating a path of clarity and relief.
I want so much to be strong. To hold her in my highest vision and her divine regard. But my eyes are drowning and my throat is locked in a battle with the facts that are present in this moment. Today is the day. I'll never forget her face as she crumpled to the floor when she realized what would happen today.
Beautiful and tortured. Green eyes filled with so much wisdom and care, a smile that ignites my heart fire and a voice that resonates with the deepest parts of my soul. We've had our time and now she's off to share her gifts with others. Women with even deeper wounds who need her spark so much more. And we'll write.
She'll write. We'll all continue to write. And grow. And show up. And love. And hug. And stretch. And give. And dance. And laugh. And breathe. And trust. And know. And believe. We'll continue to expand in our truth and our faith, knitting this family tighter and tighter as we explore our shadows and fall in love with our willingness and our courage, soaring high together on wings of integrity.
Her legacy is strong. A powerful warrioress who graced us with her potent wisdom and resounding honor and unshakable faith. An inspiration to all who were blessed to receive her. And as this rain drips from the leaves, washing away the dust of yesterday, so too will my tears cleanse my heart, clearing the way for an ever brighter light to shine forth, illuminating a path of clarity and relief.
Perfect
There's such a relief in knowing I can't get it wrong. Life that is. I like standing in this eternal sigh, watching the knots unravel and the muscles relax. I've carried that tension and ache since my birth, when we were rushed to the hospital for an emergency c-section because I was upside down, because I did it wrong. As a child I had a recurring nightmare that occured in a two dimensional white space with a black line being drawn by my mind. There was a looming, authoritative presence and the line that kept becoming and I had to focus on keeping it straight but it would always end up in a huge knot, a failure.
I've felt like a failure most of my life, even as I was praised for my accomplishments. It wasn't until I unravelled the threads of that huge knot and followed it to it's source that I could find my way back to my source, to my perfection, to my divinity. And I've seen the light that is sung by the glorious bird in my heart. And I've tasted the elixer of my ecstatic pleasure. And I've felt the bubbling call of my soul deep in my throat as years of resistance echo out my mouth in waves of sobbing laughter, throwing open the windows of my heart for the brilliant birdsong to shine through.
And as my spirit glows ever stronger within my gaze and my chest and my words, I remember why I'm here, why I've chosen this life and this body and these people and this place. I am a unique expression of God and I've come to play in this playground of duality, in the way that only I can, for the sheer pleasure and pain of experience through which to find my way home to me. And every avenue has the potential to lead me home. There is no right or wrong way. It's all perfect.
I've felt like a failure most of my life, even as I was praised for my accomplishments. It wasn't until I unravelled the threads of that huge knot and followed it to it's source that I could find my way back to my source, to my perfection, to my divinity. And I've seen the light that is sung by the glorious bird in my heart. And I've tasted the elixer of my ecstatic pleasure. And I've felt the bubbling call of my soul deep in my throat as years of resistance echo out my mouth in waves of sobbing laughter, throwing open the windows of my heart for the brilliant birdsong to shine through.
And as my spirit glows ever stronger within my gaze and my chest and my words, I remember why I'm here, why I've chosen this life and this body and these people and this place. I am a unique expression of God and I've come to play in this playground of duality, in the way that only I can, for the sheer pleasure and pain of experience through which to find my way home to me. And every avenue has the potential to lead me home. There is no right or wrong way. It's all perfect.
The Seventh Direction
I am electric. Pulsing. Alive. Reaching for the core, the center, the source. The seventh direction. I made my prayers in color. Starting west with black, I would give thanks for introspection and my courage to be accountable and heal. Then North with white, I would feel into my appreciation for ceremony and family. For East I would wrap my prayer to Eagle in red and give thanks for the eyes to see the big picture. Then Yellow for South and appreciation for my body and sexuality and all parts of my physical life. I would wrap my prayer of thanks to Star Nation in blue and to Mother Earth in Green.
But for the Center, I wouldn't pray in purple like some others, even though it's my favorite color. I always held all the other prayers in my hand, at my heart, and I would pray my gratitude for my growing presence and connection, the ability to feel my source, my center, the direction within that ties me to everyone and everything at their source, their center.
I've prayed in this way, during sweat lodge ceremonies, off and on
for 13 years and it's working. Every direction in my life has expanded. I am living a beautiful mandala of people, synchronicities, laughter, creativity, cuddles, bubbles, caresses, smiles, flowers, crystals, wings, altars, gifts, words, and sparkles. I stand at the center, opening more and more to the wisdom and feeling of who I am as I appreciate every piece, excited for the possibilities I've already created that await my ownership of the magnificent being I am.
But for the Center, I wouldn't pray in purple like some others, even though it's my favorite color. I always held all the other prayers in my hand, at my heart, and I would pray my gratitude for my growing presence and connection, the ability to feel my source, my center, the direction within that ties me to everyone and everything at their source, their center.
I've prayed in this way, during sweat lodge ceremonies, off and on
for 13 years and it's working. Every direction in my life has expanded. I am living a beautiful mandala of people, synchronicities, laughter, creativity, cuddles, bubbles, caresses, smiles, flowers, crystals, wings, altars, gifts, words, and sparkles. I stand at the center, opening more and more to the wisdom and feeling of who I am as I appreciate every piece, excited for the possibilities I've already created that await my ownership of the magnificent being I am.
Brighter
I am grateful for the trauma and pain I've experienced in my life. And I don't say that because it's cliche to say that's what's made me who I am today. I really understand that the depth of my shadows is what allows me to live in a brighter light. The pain of my childhood was the impetus for my healing and my choice to expand into a better version of myself, to seek peace, joy, and love. I feel an honest sense of gratitude for the dysfunctional choices of my parents, even the ones that caused me heavy suffering.
Granted, it's taken a lot of work to get to this place and I've expanded my perspective to a broad place where I understand our relationships at a soul level. From this vantage point, I can fully accept my mothers alcoholism and dissociation. She is a lost soul who has had many painful experiences that have caused many more and they are so heavy, it would take her a great amount of courage to move through them and become free. I see that she is not likely to do that in this lifetime and she is choosing to die in small increments until she is finally free. I love her as much as one can love someone who has no love for themselves and I accept her, recognizing that I can't change her and lamenting her inability to heal only hurts me. And my daughter.
I wonder how my daughter will become, living this blessed life in paradise. I hope that my seeking and learning and growing will show her possibilities and inspire her to seek more for herself. I hope that she won't need heavy pain to inspire her to reach higher. I hope that she can piggyback on the work I've done and become even brighter than I can imagine for myself.
Granted, it's taken a lot of work to get to this place and I've expanded my perspective to a broad place where I understand our relationships at a soul level. From this vantage point, I can fully accept my mothers alcoholism and dissociation. She is a lost soul who has had many painful experiences that have caused many more and they are so heavy, it would take her a great amount of courage to move through them and become free. I see that she is not likely to do that in this lifetime and she is choosing to die in small increments until she is finally free. I love her as much as one can love someone who has no love for themselves and I accept her, recognizing that I can't change her and lamenting her inability to heal only hurts me. And my daughter.
I wonder how my daughter will become, living this blessed life in paradise. I hope that my seeking and learning and growing will show her possibilities and inspire her to seek more for herself. I hope that she won't need heavy pain to inspire her to reach higher. I hope that she can piggyback on the work I've done and become even brighter than I can imagine for myself.
No Sense
I don't know what to do here. I think I'm going to get this wrong. She says I need to be okay with getting it wrong. I'm not. I hate getting things wrong. It means I'm wrong. It shows everyone that I'm broken. I hate it. I hate myself when I can't be brave and right and cool and have everyone like me. I hate myself when I fail. But here I go.
I'm going to write this shitty piece because I have to write something and I don't know how to get into my shadow. I want to throw this computer accross the room and see it shatter on the hard tile floor while I scream with these screams ringing between my ears. Fuck this assignment. Fuck the collective. I've lost my way and I want to give up but I can't stand to be a failure so I'll stay and do it anyways. That doesn't even make any sense.
Like it didn't make any sense to stay in my fucked up marriage when it was a failure years ago. I failed my marriage. I failed my husband. I failed myself and my dreams but, most of all, I failed my daughter. And I don't know what's worse, the failure of not being able to stay together as a family or staying way too long because I couldn't admit I'd failed just to end up leaving and failing anyways.
Maybe it was inevitable. Because I'm a failure. I've always been a failure. I couldn't even be born right. I kept flipping back around even after the doctor had turned me so we had to be rushed in an ambulance for an emergency C-section. I was wrong and my mom had to leave and I've never had her come all the way back. She felt wrong too. And I tried to take that shame from her but it didn't work. I just ended up with more than my share of the shame.
I'm going to write this shitty piece because I have to write something and I don't know how to get into my shadow. I want to throw this computer accross the room and see it shatter on the hard tile floor while I scream with these screams ringing between my ears. Fuck this assignment. Fuck the collective. I've lost my way and I want to give up but I can't stand to be a failure so I'll stay and do it anyways. That doesn't even make any sense.
Like it didn't make any sense to stay in my fucked up marriage when it was a failure years ago. I failed my marriage. I failed my husband. I failed myself and my dreams but, most of all, I failed my daughter. And I don't know what's worse, the failure of not being able to stay together as a family or staying way too long because I couldn't admit I'd failed just to end up leaving and failing anyways.
Maybe it was inevitable. Because I'm a failure. I've always been a failure. I couldn't even be born right. I kept flipping back around even after the doctor had turned me so we had to be rushed in an ambulance for an emergency C-section. I was wrong and my mom had to leave and I've never had her come all the way back. She felt wrong too. And I tried to take that shame from her but it didn't work. I just ended up with more than my share of the shame.
Don't Look
I'm shy.
Don't look in my eyes.
There are deep caverns within filled with broken parts and misunderstood memos,
Shelf upon shelf of stories,
Tear stained pages and torn bindings.
Don't look through my windows.
I haven't tidied up enough today.
Just look at my outside parts,
My beautiful features and
Tell me I'm pretty.
Tell me you like me.
Tell me I'm good enough just as I am.
These outside parts won't stay pretty forever.
And what then?
I'll have to dig through the musty depths and pull out the bent perceptions, the convoluted fairytales, and the misconceived understandings of what it means to be loveable and to love.
I'll have to unshackle the little girl from her chains of shame and misconstrued obligatory sexuality.
I'll hold her in my arms and tell her it's okay to be ugly,
That I love her no matter what,
That she doesn't have to do anything
Or say anything
Or be anything
To be worthy of love.
And together we'll dig through the broken pieces and we'll hot glue them together and paint and glitter them and create an hommage to who we thought we were and we'll dance around it in circles,
First counterclockwise and then sunwise,
While singing at the top of our lungs
And laughing
And grunting
And screaming
And crying
And smiling
Until we collapse
In a great bear hug
At the altar of our transformation.
Don't look in my eyes.
There are deep caverns within filled with broken parts and misunderstood memos,
Shelf upon shelf of stories,
Tear stained pages and torn bindings.
Don't look through my windows.
I haven't tidied up enough today.
Just look at my outside parts,
My beautiful features and
Tell me I'm pretty.
Tell me you like me.
Tell me I'm good enough just as I am.
These outside parts won't stay pretty forever.
And what then?
I'll have to dig through the musty depths and pull out the bent perceptions, the convoluted fairytales, and the misconceived understandings of what it means to be loveable and to love.
I'll have to unshackle the little girl from her chains of shame and misconstrued obligatory sexuality.
I'll hold her in my arms and tell her it's okay to be ugly,
That I love her no matter what,
That she doesn't have to do anything
Or say anything
Or be anything
To be worthy of love.
And together we'll dig through the broken pieces and we'll hot glue them together and paint and glitter them and create an hommage to who we thought we were and we'll dance around it in circles,
First counterclockwise and then sunwise,
While singing at the top of our lungs
And laughing
And grunting
And screaming
And crying
And smiling
Until we collapse
In a great bear hug
At the altar of our transformation.
Out Of Synch
I'm dislocated
Out of synch
Disparate parts vying for the wheel
Desires
Ideas
Conditioning
Beliefs
And even within each of these there is conflict or opposition Sometimes I feel like I am more than several entities
Psycho-psuedo, you know
It's all show
I'll show you
Show me, please
I'm right here
Who am I?
Multi-dimensional capabilities run rampant through the maze of my mind-altered...
What?
And young, heartbroken, stunted eyes see truth as vision
Or is it visions as truth?
Who's eyes see?
See me
Seeing you
Seeing the words between
Reflecting patterns and webs of lost promises and escaped presence
Sure, he hurt me in his ignorance and pain but maybe those that followed were really trying to love me and all I could see was the same
The writing on the wall
Etched in tears from years past
Passing
Losing
Gone
Opportunities to show up
To love
To be loved
Lost
Stained
Broken
I'm broken
Shattered into pieces
Reflections of parts
An ear in that one
Some hair over there
Longing to be seen
But not really
Don't look at the ugly
Just the pieces that have been approved by the...
What?
Who?
Why have I given such power to another?
To others?
To judge and categorize and label and...
And I follow suit
Wanting to fit in
To be a part
For my parts to measure up
For a stamp of approval when all it does is stamp me down
Keep me small
Playing the parts
Fuck this part, this act, this show
I'll show them
I'll show you
Me
Them
We
Fuck this game we play
Pretending our shit don't stink
Hiding our ugly
Masking our pain
Ask me how I am and I'll say fine and when you give me truth I don't want to hear it
I don't have time
And round and round we go on this wheel of shame
Playing the blame game
Nobody had a perfect childhood
No one came through unscathed
We all have our shit to work on
Our pieces to pick up
Our addictions and coping mechanisms
So let's get to it
I'll show you mine if you show me yours
Out of synch
Disparate parts vying for the wheel
Desires
Ideas
Conditioning
Beliefs
And even within each of these there is conflict or opposition Sometimes I feel like I am more than several entities
Psycho-psuedo, you know
It's all show
I'll show you
Show me, please
I'm right here
Who am I?
Multi-dimensional capabilities run rampant through the maze of my mind-altered...
What?
And young, heartbroken, stunted eyes see truth as vision
Or is it visions as truth?
Who's eyes see?
See me
Seeing you
Seeing the words between
Reflecting patterns and webs of lost promises and escaped presence
Sure, he hurt me in his ignorance and pain but maybe those that followed were really trying to love me and all I could see was the same
The writing on the wall
Etched in tears from years past
Passing
Losing
Gone
Opportunities to show up
To love
To be loved
Lost
Stained
Broken
I'm broken
Shattered into pieces
Reflections of parts
An ear in that one
Some hair over there
Longing to be seen
But not really
Don't look at the ugly
Just the pieces that have been approved by the...
What?
Who?
Why have I given such power to another?
To others?
To judge and categorize and label and...
And I follow suit
Wanting to fit in
To be a part
For my parts to measure up
For a stamp of approval when all it does is stamp me down
Keep me small
Playing the parts
Fuck this part, this act, this show
I'll show them
I'll show you
Me
Them
We
Fuck this game we play
Pretending our shit don't stink
Hiding our ugly
Masking our pain
Ask me how I am and I'll say fine and when you give me truth I don't want to hear it
I don't have time
And round and round we go on this wheel of shame
Playing the blame game
Nobody had a perfect childhood
No one came through unscathed
We all have our shit to work on
Our pieces to pick up
Our addictions and coping mechanisms
So let's get to it
I'll show you mine if you show me yours
I'm Still Not Sure I Believe I Won't Fall
I'm caught between the dark and the light
Stretched to my limit
The fire that once burned without heed or knowing can no longer recover my bad decisions.
I know too much now
Or my body is too old now
Or I'm at a crossroads
I'm praying for the courage to step into the microphonographic present
For the strength to handle my greatness
For the wisdom to embrace my capabilities
For the compassion to cradle my beating heart as I breathe life into the very column of light that only exists at the infinite point of now
I've tasted those shadows and hid in those closets
Frozen
Ashamed
Wishing for the darkness to swallow me
Leaving no trace of the fallen angel enveloped in despair and confusion.
I've stifled my pleasure and followed the rules and handed my sovereignty to the first bidder
My wings long broken and put to use dusting the shelves of my matriarchal disillusionment
Not even believing I once could fly
And I'm still not sure I believe I won't fall
But I can't keep living like I'm on a short leash
Like I won't find strings up my sleeve
Like I'm waiting for the wind to fill my sails
I have a wheel in my hand and feet in my shoes
I know what feels good and what feeds my soul
I have techniques to heal my tweaks and delights to satisfy my urges
I'm equipped with pen
And knife
And speakers
And water
And flowers
And smiles
And a brilliant light shining forth from my heart when I breathe into the wisdom and courage of showing up
Stretched to my limit
The fire that once burned without heed or knowing can no longer recover my bad decisions.
I know too much now
Or my body is too old now
Or I'm at a crossroads
I'm praying for the courage to step into the microphonographic present
For the strength to handle my greatness
For the wisdom to embrace my capabilities
For the compassion to cradle my beating heart as I breathe life into the very column of light that only exists at the infinite point of now
I've tasted those shadows and hid in those closets
Frozen
Ashamed
Wishing for the darkness to swallow me
Leaving no trace of the fallen angel enveloped in despair and confusion.
I've stifled my pleasure and followed the rules and handed my sovereignty to the first bidder
My wings long broken and put to use dusting the shelves of my matriarchal disillusionment
Not even believing I once could fly
And I'm still not sure I believe I won't fall
But I can't keep living like I'm on a short leash
Like I won't find strings up my sleeve
Like I'm waiting for the wind to fill my sails
I have a wheel in my hand and feet in my shoes
I know what feels good and what feeds my soul
I have techniques to heal my tweaks and delights to satisfy my urges
I'm equipped with pen
And knife
And speakers
And water
And flowers
And smiles
And a brilliant light shining forth from my heart when I breathe into the wisdom and courage of showing up
Validation
I don't want to look.
I'm a fucking mess.
Heavy lip corners pulling hard,
Threatening a flash flood.
I'm trying hard to not breathe,
To keep it together.
Those thick tears live in the deeper parts of my lungs,
The parts that hug my heart.
I need a hug.
I need a cigarette.
I need to be okay,
To feel that I deserve to live,
That I am worthy of being loved.
Not just because I have a pretty face sometimes
And my legs are long and sexy
And all men love tall women.
Who am I without my beauty?
I'm afraid to find out.
No one notices me when I'm in my comfy clothes and my comfy face.
No one cares about me when I blend into the background.
I'm supposed to line my eyes
And push up my breasts
And walk with confidence
And smile pretty so that all the doors of opportunity will open up for me.
But it's bullshit.
I seek validation in the many compliments.
I know I must be beautiful and I thought that was my ticket to happiness.
I've been duped.
I've been lied to and tricked.
All those years of compliments and recognition of my beauty only gave me a shallow sense of love.
And I've been left with a deep longing and a distrust.
I've put my power in the hands of every pair of eyes that look my way, hoping they will see through the high cheekbones and the hourglass figure to the confused little bird underneath,
The fragile heart that beats the high notes of hope.
I want to scratch at my face and slouch over my conditioning.
I want to shave my head and scream awful obscenities.
I want to dance the ugly dance and spit venom at the feet of the masses.
Will they love me then?
Will they even be able to look at me?
Why do I even care so much?
I'm a fucking mess.
Heavy lip corners pulling hard,
Threatening a flash flood.
I'm trying hard to not breathe,
To keep it together.
Those thick tears live in the deeper parts of my lungs,
The parts that hug my heart.
I need a hug.
I need a cigarette.
I need to be okay,
To feel that I deserve to live,
That I am worthy of being loved.
Not just because I have a pretty face sometimes
And my legs are long and sexy
And all men love tall women.
Who am I without my beauty?
I'm afraid to find out.
No one notices me when I'm in my comfy clothes and my comfy face.
No one cares about me when I blend into the background.
I'm supposed to line my eyes
And push up my breasts
And walk with confidence
And smile pretty so that all the doors of opportunity will open up for me.
But it's bullshit.
I seek validation in the many compliments.
I know I must be beautiful and I thought that was my ticket to happiness.
I've been duped.
I've been lied to and tricked.
All those years of compliments and recognition of my beauty only gave me a shallow sense of love.
And I've been left with a deep longing and a distrust.
I've put my power in the hands of every pair of eyes that look my way, hoping they will see through the high cheekbones and the hourglass figure to the confused little bird underneath,
The fragile heart that beats the high notes of hope.
I want to scratch at my face and slouch over my conditioning.
I want to shave my head and scream awful obscenities.
I want to dance the ugly dance and spit venom at the feet of the masses.
Will they love me then?
Will they even be able to look at me?
Why do I even care so much?
Sweet Nothings
Twang those strings on that surly cello. Her gown is ripe for shredding. Can't you see how she's crying tears of pink lemonade, saturated with sweet nothings and empty winks? She's been told and told and shown by actions and non-actions and implications and even direct examples. They all believe it to be true. And she did too.
No one reflected to her that her voice was off-key, that sharp, curly notes wafted from her lips when she thought she sang lollipop shivers and pollen-rich feathers scented with gold. The song in her own head sounded different to her and she was the only one who could hear.
Classy dining cars full of bejeweled mistresses always on course, of course. The train always follows the tracks. And her tracks were laid out with her genes, long like her legs, curvy like her lips, fast like her wit. Round and round the track she goes, following the trail of many before her. But of some she doesn't know. The ones that derailed. She doesn' know how they flew rather than fell, how the anticipation of the black hole almost imploded them, how the roar of their own song deafened their ears until their compass spun out and settled on up.
All she knows is that there is a cringing jack in the box in her belly, wound and wound from going round and round, and the pressure is so taut, so tight, so sour and rich and full, like a jar of fermenting fruit forgotten, ready to explode. And she must explode, she must derail, she must fly and spin and sing. High and tangy notes that ring through the air, chartreuse and periwinkle, to perch on the eyes of the peacocks tail while she crumples in release.
No one reflected to her that her voice was off-key, that sharp, curly notes wafted from her lips when she thought she sang lollipop shivers and pollen-rich feathers scented with gold. The song in her own head sounded different to her and she was the only one who could hear.
Classy dining cars full of bejeweled mistresses always on course, of course. The train always follows the tracks. And her tracks were laid out with her genes, long like her legs, curvy like her lips, fast like her wit. Round and round the track she goes, following the trail of many before her. But of some she doesn't know. The ones that derailed. She doesn' know how they flew rather than fell, how the anticipation of the black hole almost imploded them, how the roar of their own song deafened their ears until their compass spun out and settled on up.
All she knows is that there is a cringing jack in the box in her belly, wound and wound from going round and round, and the pressure is so taut, so tight, so sour and rich and full, like a jar of fermenting fruit forgotten, ready to explode. And she must explode, she must derail, she must fly and spin and sing. High and tangy notes that ring through the air, chartreuse and periwinkle, to perch on the eyes of the peacocks tail while she crumples in release.
A Symphony of Moments
The rain falls in rhythm, in time, sounding it's staccato on the small tin roof, on the large elephant ear leaves, on the surface of the pool, a symphony of moments, a metering of breath, each drop passing, pulling life with it, like a string of pearls, sacrificed days, weeks, years.
We count our lives by birthdays, by accomplishments, by accumulations. We pad our pedestals with compliments, with adoring gazes, with longing gestures, while we stare sidelong at another we've elevated higher, adoring, longing, wishing.
And the moments fall, pitter-pattering away like the little feet that stretch and reach until they fit into our shoes. And then we long for the little feet, the soft, squishy ones that fit in our hands, that pulled our hearts into our throats. But they've grow into big feet that dance their own dance, and climb their own mountains, and kick their own balls and splash in their own puddles.
Puddles made with thousands of drops, rippling our reflections, disturbing our smooth surface. Moment after moment dropping away while we stare at our surface, noting each ripple, each scar. And beneath the surface, the drops coalesce in form, in a brilliant dance, a masterpiece of color and light and song and release and surrender.
Drink in the moments, taste the perfection of now as it rolls over your tongue, as your ears perk to hear it, as your back arches to meet it, as your cells vibrate in unison, shimmying and shuddering. Open your throat to this moment, trusting your breath as it lubricates the passage to your heart, unlocking your gates, expanding your edges, washing, clearing, opening. Drop after drop, subsumed back into the ocean. This drop is all there is.
We count our lives by birthdays, by accomplishments, by accumulations. We pad our pedestals with compliments, with adoring gazes, with longing gestures, while we stare sidelong at another we've elevated higher, adoring, longing, wishing.
And the moments fall, pitter-pattering away like the little feet that stretch and reach until they fit into our shoes. And then we long for the little feet, the soft, squishy ones that fit in our hands, that pulled our hearts into our throats. But they've grow into big feet that dance their own dance, and climb their own mountains, and kick their own balls and splash in their own puddles.
Puddles made with thousands of drops, rippling our reflections, disturbing our smooth surface. Moment after moment dropping away while we stare at our surface, noting each ripple, each scar. And beneath the surface, the drops coalesce in form, in a brilliant dance, a masterpiece of color and light and song and release and surrender.
Drink in the moments, taste the perfection of now as it rolls over your tongue, as your ears perk to hear it, as your back arches to meet it, as your cells vibrate in unison, shimmying and shuddering. Open your throat to this moment, trusting your breath as it lubricates the passage to your heart, unlocking your gates, expanding your edges, washing, clearing, opening. Drop after drop, subsumed back into the ocean. This drop is all there is.
Coming Home
Sometimes I cry until I'm laughing. Sometimes my tears are just a torrent of release. When I've unlocked a door that's been hiding a little girl whose father left, who's mother is too drunk to notice, who's stepfather loved her too much. Those little girls are not me. They are past lives, halted tears that got closed behind heavy doors and locked up until I was strong enough to release them.
I've lived long and hard. Seeking truths in swinging chairs and curving roads and lusty eyes and broken promises. I was a mother long before I birthed my own child, taking care, doing right, trying to make up for the wrong inside, the little girls that got hurt and ran away. Broken pieces left behind, some locked away, some floating behind, wanting to come home, waiting until it was safe.
Sometimes, they would jump in the drivers seat and steer the bus into a wreck, or off a cliff, and they always look familiar, like him, or her, or that time when... Then they could say this always happens, it's not safe to come home, I don't deserve to be happy.
But, sometimes, one will steer us down a familiar road, smashing into a brick wall, blazing fire and torment, and I will pause and ask why and unlock the heavy door, letting her out and holding her close while she sobs and sobs, ancient tears wetting my face, finally free. And as she contracts into the pain, dissolving into me, I expand in release, giggling and raw.
I am my mother, my father, my guru. I hold the keys to my own salvation. Only I can choose to unlock the doors and open the closets, pull out the treasures and dust them off, open the blinds and let in the light. I can make this home warm and inviting and safe.
I've lived long and hard. Seeking truths in swinging chairs and curving roads and lusty eyes and broken promises. I was a mother long before I birthed my own child, taking care, doing right, trying to make up for the wrong inside, the little girls that got hurt and ran away. Broken pieces left behind, some locked away, some floating behind, wanting to come home, waiting until it was safe.
Sometimes, they would jump in the drivers seat and steer the bus into a wreck, or off a cliff, and they always look familiar, like him, or her, or that time when... Then they could say this always happens, it's not safe to come home, I don't deserve to be happy.
But, sometimes, one will steer us down a familiar road, smashing into a brick wall, blazing fire and torment, and I will pause and ask why and unlock the heavy door, letting her out and holding her close while she sobs and sobs, ancient tears wetting my face, finally free. And as she contracts into the pain, dissolving into me, I expand in release, giggling and raw.
I am my mother, my father, my guru. I hold the keys to my own salvation. Only I can choose to unlock the doors and open the closets, pull out the treasures and dust them off, open the blinds and let in the light. I can make this home warm and inviting and safe.
Skydiving
I think I'd like to try skydiving. It would be like my dreams but with a portal to guarantee corporeal justice. Or maybe not. Maybe I want to dive into the fur-lined pool of dragons blood, or the martini with the pink feather hat garnish, or the lake of giddy adolescent daydreams. But only if I can kick and squeal and spin and spin and spin until my torso twists into itself, birthing through my throat and unfurling an iridescent purple chrysanthemum.
Or maybe I want to wrap my tongue in molten gold, infusing my words with fine-grain magic dust and rainbow truth arrows and unicorn hair paintbrushes. And I could tease my hair high atop the mountains and plant my flag in the chocolate pudding blizzard. I could stake a claim to the throne of orgasmic expansion while offering my song to the ears of the wolf.
Or maybe I'll just bite my finger and furl my brow into a catacomb of flickering torches, lighting fork after fork into deep sleeping spells, swallowing knots and burying treasures. I could cringe and bear the cross, shrinking into a silent movie, black and white with a simple story and a quick end. I could close the door and draw the blinds, squinting so I don't have to look, choking down the last supper, covering my ears and screaming snakes.
Maybe I want to stab my leg and taste my tears while I cradle my stories, burning the pages and humming the tunes. I can fly to the moon on my broken tricycle. I can bounce in a hot pink princess dress on a holy trampoline. I can paint a masterpiece with the blood of failure and the sweat of a close escape. I can conceive a Messiah from the rape of a frozen deer. And maybe I will. Maybe I have.
Or maybe I want to wrap my tongue in molten gold, infusing my words with fine-grain magic dust and rainbow truth arrows and unicorn hair paintbrushes. And I could tease my hair high atop the mountains and plant my flag in the chocolate pudding blizzard. I could stake a claim to the throne of orgasmic expansion while offering my song to the ears of the wolf.
Or maybe I'll just bite my finger and furl my brow into a catacomb of flickering torches, lighting fork after fork into deep sleeping spells, swallowing knots and burying treasures. I could cringe and bear the cross, shrinking into a silent movie, black and white with a simple story and a quick end. I could close the door and draw the blinds, squinting so I don't have to look, choking down the last supper, covering my ears and screaming snakes.
Maybe I want to stab my leg and taste my tears while I cradle my stories, burning the pages and humming the tunes. I can fly to the moon on my broken tricycle. I can bounce in a hot pink princess dress on a holy trampoline. I can paint a masterpiece with the blood of failure and the sweat of a close escape. I can conceive a Messiah from the rape of a frozen deer. And maybe I will. Maybe I have.
All Kinds Of Brillance
I am vibrant. Like a deep wellspring of fresh, sparkling water. Like a fuchsia cattleya orchid opening to the Sun. Like the first bite of a sweet, juicy nectarine. I am sparkling and juicy. I am opening. There is a brightness emanating from my core. A vivid expression of life. A channel for the brilliance of the Universe to shine through.
When I can get out of my own way, that is. When I let go and trust. When I look past the wrinkles and the slouching and the frozen and the addictions. When I love myself just as I am. When I forgive the tainted, confused love I received as a child. And as an adult. When I forgive and love anyway. Myself too.
When I can get out of my own way, all kinds of brilliance can shine through. In song and words and dance and ceremony. In parenting and understanding and friendship and love. And I can appreciate the brilliance that shines through others as they get out of their own way and show up in their authentic expression of life.
When I'm shining, the world is more vibrant too. Nature joins me in the dance, twirling and dipping me as I laugh and trust, following her cues to more and more brilliant expression. Birdsong tickles my viscera while waves massage my perception. Hues and textures of plants beckon smiles and compliments while I receive their gifts.
A jungle teeming with possibility. Each leave a story. Each creature an invitation. I am home in this richness, this masterpiece of color and sound, an orgy of expression, making love with the elements, fire and water climaxing in the steamy culmination of breath, grounded in the wisdom of attention.
When I can get out of my own way, that is. When I let go and trust. When I look past the wrinkles and the slouching and the frozen and the addictions. When I love myself just as I am. When I forgive the tainted, confused love I received as a child. And as an adult. When I forgive and love anyway. Myself too.
When I can get out of my own way, all kinds of brilliance can shine through. In song and words and dance and ceremony. In parenting and understanding and friendship and love. And I can appreciate the brilliance that shines through others as they get out of their own way and show up in their authentic expression of life.
When I'm shining, the world is more vibrant too. Nature joins me in the dance, twirling and dipping me as I laugh and trust, following her cues to more and more brilliant expression. Birdsong tickles my viscera while waves massage my perception. Hues and textures of plants beckon smiles and compliments while I receive their gifts.
A jungle teeming with possibility. Each leave a story. Each creature an invitation. I am home in this richness, this masterpiece of color and sound, an orgy of expression, making love with the elements, fire and water climaxing in the steamy culmination of breath, grounded in the wisdom of attention.
Broken No More
Broken no more, I've broken through. Mended the cracks and fissures, the no good and the can't do. He who hurts will hurt those he loves as he was hurt by those who loved him. Chains linked and strung, far back down the line, nobody knows where they began. Shit rolls downhill, they say, and I've had more than my share of shit. Stinky, rotten, heavy fucking shit. Who can love someone covered in shit? No matter how much makeup and perfume and fancy clothes we try to cover the shit with, we still stink and we still fling shit so long as the shit is there to fling.
So take a fucking shower. Clean the past and do yoga, get therapy, dance and cry and heal. Smoke DMT, find your guru, smell flowers, cry more, forgive, touch the earth, stop thinking, breathe and cry and scream and heal. Find your buried heart. Clean it off. Love yourself. Love yourself. Love yourself. Break the chains of pain and be free.
Decide. Seriously, it's that simple. Decide you are worthy. Decide you are good enough. Decide you deserve to live a happy, successful, prosperous, peaceful life full of loving relationships. Nobody can decide for you, no matter how much power you give them to do so. You get to choose. Life is based on free will. We choose. Whether we do it from conscious self-love or default familial patterning depends on our personal karmic, genetic, conditioned, chemical, experiential combination. But even within all that we have choice.
Granted, choosing to break free takes courage but that, too, is a choice. We all have access to courage, if we choose. And when we do, courage becomes more accessible, like thermal lift for your wings.
So, join me. Clean off your shit and spread your wings. Show up and claim your seat at this table laid out with a gourmet feast of pleasure, joy, and gratitude. You're not broken, you just need to break through.
So take a fucking shower. Clean the past and do yoga, get therapy, dance and cry and heal. Smoke DMT, find your guru, smell flowers, cry more, forgive, touch the earth, stop thinking, breathe and cry and scream and heal. Find your buried heart. Clean it off. Love yourself. Love yourself. Love yourself. Break the chains of pain and be free.
Decide. Seriously, it's that simple. Decide you are worthy. Decide you are good enough. Decide you deserve to live a happy, successful, prosperous, peaceful life full of loving relationships. Nobody can decide for you, no matter how much power you give them to do so. You get to choose. Life is based on free will. We choose. Whether we do it from conscious self-love or default familial patterning depends on our personal karmic, genetic, conditioned, chemical, experiential combination. But even within all that we have choice.
Granted, choosing to break free takes courage but that, too, is a choice. We all have access to courage, if we choose. And when we do, courage becomes more accessible, like thermal lift for your wings.
So, join me. Clean off your shit and spread your wings. Show up and claim your seat at this table laid out with a gourmet feast of pleasure, joy, and gratitude. You're not broken, you just need to break through.
Forever Rearranged
Turbo charge my fingers. Blast the truth from these wands of creation. Great power flows through this skin, where tendon meets bone, from electromagnetic communication between grey matter and red liquid, hot and vital, like a lava flow pushing into space, creating new ground.
Passionate tongues lick salt from the edges of the sea, transmuting wounds from lead to gold, while spitting truths and releasing ties to forgotton contracts. Licking and tickling, words spew forth, channels reveal light, cracking the crust, the heavy layers of paint and metal, several coats thick.
This dance titillates my calves and springloads my toes. Lightning spirals from heel to brow, spine shuddering as my pupils catch fire. Sight no longer clear but completely revealed, lids closed, seeing the totality of life and death and the dimensions between.
Breathing deep to meet this fullness, receiving, receiving, my being widens, receiving, melting duality and morphing color til fireworks explode from the tips of my hair and my eyes turn purple.
Lips parted in reverence, a sigh releases this temporal hold, the truth of gravity settling bones back into joints and stones into cradles. Forever rearranged, cells divide to sing perfection into being, to weave tapestries of promises, to paint landscapes of brilliant exclamation. A masterpiece formed by these hands and tongue and lips and fire, this spark and fight and breaking through.
Passionate tongues lick salt from the edges of the sea, transmuting wounds from lead to gold, while spitting truths and releasing ties to forgotton contracts. Licking and tickling, words spew forth, channels reveal light, cracking the crust, the heavy layers of paint and metal, several coats thick.
This dance titillates my calves and springloads my toes. Lightning spirals from heel to brow, spine shuddering as my pupils catch fire. Sight no longer clear but completely revealed, lids closed, seeing the totality of life and death and the dimensions between.
Breathing deep to meet this fullness, receiving, receiving, my being widens, receiving, melting duality and morphing color til fireworks explode from the tips of my hair and my eyes turn purple.
Lips parted in reverence, a sigh releases this temporal hold, the truth of gravity settling bones back into joints and stones into cradles. Forever rearranged, cells divide to sing perfection into being, to weave tapestries of promises, to paint landscapes of brilliant exclamation. A masterpiece formed by these hands and tongue and lips and fire, this spark and fight and breaking through.
Love Me
Take me for a ride. Dance me to and fro. Whirl my being in a vortex of pleasure and pain and celebration and release. Spin my thoughts out of control. Dizzy my mind until it unravels and I am left naked in my body and my heart. I don't care what I look like. I don't care if you like me. I know you love me. I love me.
I signed up for this ride because I know I can handle it. Even if I spew my guts all over the landscape, ugly and stinky. This shit I've swallowed is heavy and thick, clogging my pores and slowing my progress. It's not mine. Sexual favors in exchange for twisted love generations deep, swirling into black holes of shame that hide in the bottom of a bottle, day after day, life after life.
A legacy of shadows, passed down through gestures and words, violence and desertion, devoured by starving mouths that long for the gentle kiss of love. Not praise for being a good student love, or validation through compliments of beauty love, or attention for being funny love, or offering sex through obligation love. No, not limited, conditional love.
Real love. The kind that shines through the not good enough and the didn't do it right and the don't deserve it. The kind that sees the broken and the angry and the scared and loves anyways. The kind that smells the rot and tastes the sharp and hears the ouch and loves anyways. The love that loves anyways. The love that just loves.
I signed up for this ride because I know I can handle it. Even if I spew my guts all over the landscape, ugly and stinky. This shit I've swallowed is heavy and thick, clogging my pores and slowing my progress. It's not mine. Sexual favors in exchange for twisted love generations deep, swirling into black holes of shame that hide in the bottom of a bottle, day after day, life after life.
A legacy of shadows, passed down through gestures and words, violence and desertion, devoured by starving mouths that long for the gentle kiss of love. Not praise for being a good student love, or validation through compliments of beauty love, or attention for being funny love, or offering sex through obligation love. No, not limited, conditional love.
Real love. The kind that shines through the not good enough and the didn't do it right and the don't deserve it. The kind that sees the broken and the angry and the scared and loves anyways. The kind that smells the rot and tastes the sharp and hears the ouch and loves anyways. The love that loves anyways. The love that just loves.
Follow The Thing
Follow the thing. What is the thing, you ask? Well, what speaks to you? How does it show up? It's getting a call from someone you were just thinking about. Or the wave of a tree branch prompting you down the left trail of the fork. It's in the shooting star that punctuates the words you just spoke or the thought you just heard. It's in the kiss of a moth or the whiz of a dragonfly or the chirp of a bird that's cocking it's head at you. Or the sparkle in the eyes of a brother showing up in the tea aisle at the grocery store saying he'd just thought of you and here you are.
Take notice. Follow. The thing will lead to the next thing that will lead to the next thing and the things will connect with gossamer threads through the matrix of space and time, weaving a tapestry of magic more beautiful than anything you could conceive in your logical, linear mind.
Follow the thing. Speaking to us through synchronicity and grace, through wonder and power. Power lies in the moment, in trusting the muse of your higher self, the God in you.
Pay attention. Take notice and follow the thing. Get out of your way. Get out of your mind. Get out of your stories of how things are and how things will be and what you think you want and what others are doing or not doing to you or for you or with you. You are your own muse, your creator, your God. Listen, look, breathe, now.
Notice the thing and follow it. You know what to do, what to say, when to listen and receive. You speak to yourself through the goosebumps on your flesh, through the sharp intake of breath, through the shiver running up your spine, through the knowing in your belly when the thing shows up. Pay attention to the resonating waves that flow through your field. Follow the thing. It will lead you home.
Take notice. Follow. The thing will lead to the next thing that will lead to the next thing and the things will connect with gossamer threads through the matrix of space and time, weaving a tapestry of magic more beautiful than anything you could conceive in your logical, linear mind.
Follow the thing. Speaking to us through synchronicity and grace, through wonder and power. Power lies in the moment, in trusting the muse of your higher self, the God in you.
Pay attention. Take notice and follow the thing. Get out of your way. Get out of your mind. Get out of your stories of how things are and how things will be and what you think you want and what others are doing or not doing to you or for you or with you. You are your own muse, your creator, your God. Listen, look, breathe, now.
Notice the thing and follow it. You know what to do, what to say, when to listen and receive. You speak to yourself through the goosebumps on your flesh, through the sharp intake of breath, through the shiver running up your spine, through the knowing in your belly when the thing shows up. Pay attention to the resonating waves that flow through your field. Follow the thing. It will lead you home.
Crimsom Tapestry
Dense and powerful.
Iron mined from deep within the cavernous womb of the Earth Released in a torrent of intention, anger, grace.
Honor this moment,
Hear her cries of anguish at the missed opportunity to birth a new life,
Her barren soil rich with minerals awaiting a seed to nurture. Tears amass and the river floods the land,
Washing the possibility out to the sea,
Uniting with the depths of her heart,
Releasing the sorrow of the ancestors.
Honor this moment.
Taste the richness of the lava that leaks from her sacred chalice. Pele's fire,
Creating new lands and destroying old constructs,
Her rage fearsome and palpable.
Her love pure.
Now.
Crimson threads woven through the tapestry of womanhood
From the beginning of time,
Of life.
Bleached bones that once held the marrow of purpose,
Now dust beneath our feet,
Minerals to feed the dreams of our children.
Serpent slithering on her skin,
All belly and contractions and sex.
Her wisdom parcelled into each scale,
Shining, iridescent tricks.
Look from here and see another truth.
All truth is hers,
All rites,
All creation.
Seeds planted deep root down and down,
Reaching for her heat,
Her heartbeat.
The rhythm softly drumming behind every ear,
Moment by moment,
Honored.
Iron mined from deep within the cavernous womb of the Earth Released in a torrent of intention, anger, grace.
Honor this moment,
Hear her cries of anguish at the missed opportunity to birth a new life,
Her barren soil rich with minerals awaiting a seed to nurture. Tears amass and the river floods the land,
Washing the possibility out to the sea,
Uniting with the depths of her heart,
Releasing the sorrow of the ancestors.
Honor this moment.
Taste the richness of the lava that leaks from her sacred chalice. Pele's fire,
Creating new lands and destroying old constructs,
Her rage fearsome and palpable.
Her love pure.
Now.
Crimson threads woven through the tapestry of womanhood
From the beginning of time,
Of life.
Bleached bones that once held the marrow of purpose,
Now dust beneath our feet,
Minerals to feed the dreams of our children.
Serpent slithering on her skin,
All belly and contractions and sex.
Her wisdom parcelled into each scale,
Shining, iridescent tricks.
Look from here and see another truth.
All truth is hers,
All rites,
All creation.
Seeds planted deep root down and down,
Reaching for her heat,
Her heartbeat.
The rhythm softly drumming behind every ear,
Moment by moment,
Honored.
Champagne VS Gargoyle
I threatened to quit. I'm not getting it. I'm not doing it right. I'm hiding. But there's only three more weeks and then I get champagne. I love champagne. I love the cold and the bubbles and the way it tickles my heart and pushes the spiky gargoyle out the back door. Maybe not forever but for a little while. Long enough to play and celebrate and feel wonderful.
I want it to be my birthday every day. So I can drink champagne and laugh and dance. So I can hear everyone tell me how amazing I am. How happy they are that I was born. So I can keep the gargoyle out.
I was almost not born. My parents were teenagers. His parents were adamant. They were too young. She was meek. They made an appointment. Then her dad spoke up. He stood up for her. He supported her. She changed her mind.
No one told me until I was grown. How I began this life so unwanted. How they all wanted to get rid of me. I carry that stone. Built into the spikes of the gargoyle. The ones that poke at my heart. That deflate my lungs. Sometimes it pokes so hard I have to drink a whole bottle of champagne to push it out.
I want it to be my birthday every day. So I can drink champagne and laugh and dance. So I can hear everyone tell me how amazing I am. How happy they are that I was born. So I can keep the gargoyle out.
I was almost not born. My parents were teenagers. His parents were adamant. They were too young. She was meek. They made an appointment. Then her dad spoke up. He stood up for her. He supported her. She changed her mind.
No one told me until I was grown. How I began this life so unwanted. How they all wanted to get rid of me. I carry that stone. Built into the spikes of the gargoyle. The ones that poke at my heart. That deflate my lungs. Sometimes it pokes so hard I have to drink a whole bottle of champagne to push it out.
My Blood My Power
Wild. Free. Alive. Pulsing with possibility, yet heeding only the moment. Eyes bright with vision, ears tuned to subtlety, reflexes alert, poised and ready to pounce. I want to growl and purr and hiss. I want my heart to spew from my mouth in purity. No filter. Just raw vibration, and blood. Lot's of blood. Red and hot and alive. Blazing fire and intention.
The moon pulls my blood, sometimes blazing, sometimes cool, but always in motion, always dancing, always pumping through, measuring moments in rhythm and syncopation.
I gave blood once. To a sacred place. I knew better but didn't present an offering, or ask permission, so a wave pushed me into the sharp lava, cutting my leg, three inches long. I looked down at the beautiful, red mana pouring from my body, pink flesh revealed. Witnessing my mind at work, I recognized a moment of choice and decided I would feel no pain, owning my body, my blood, my sovereignty. And there was not a moment of pain as I continued in my journey to the stargate ahead, humbled and reverent.
My blood, my power. I created life from the blood of my body. A human being grown from my blood and my body, from my blazing fire and intention. How can I doubt the power of the mana that flows through me? How much blood do I have to spill before I make an offering? Before I honor? The lioness doubts not her prowess. Her roar is not meek.
The moon pulls my blood, sometimes blazing, sometimes cool, but always in motion, always dancing, always pumping through, measuring moments in rhythm and syncopation.
I gave blood once. To a sacred place. I knew better but didn't present an offering, or ask permission, so a wave pushed me into the sharp lava, cutting my leg, three inches long. I looked down at the beautiful, red mana pouring from my body, pink flesh revealed. Witnessing my mind at work, I recognized a moment of choice and decided I would feel no pain, owning my body, my blood, my sovereignty. And there was not a moment of pain as I continued in my journey to the stargate ahead, humbled and reverent.
My blood, my power. I created life from the blood of my body. A human being grown from my blood and my body, from my blazing fire and intention. How can I doubt the power of the mana that flows through me? How much blood do I have to spill before I make an offering? Before I honor? The lioness doubts not her prowess. Her roar is not meek.
Empty Me
Empty me
Drain my veins of all this pain,
Of all this longing and starving and reaching.
Empty me
Pull my bones from my body and let me crumple to the ground, Let me fall in a heap,
Let me melt and shrivel and rot.
Let the flies lay their eggs in my crevices.
Let the maggots feed on my surrender.
Empty me
Pull my head out my ass and turn me inside out,
Then scrub me spotless.
Empty me
Turn me upside down and dump me out.
Dump out my keys and my spare change and my lip gloss.
Dump out my hamster wheel and my timepiece and my calendar.
Empty me
Shake me and shake me until who I think I am slides out of my skin.
And then throw my empty shell into the fire.
Empty me
Take me apart,
Piece by piece,
And throw away everything that's not true, not real, not pure,
All the lies and the shame and the pretty and the smart and the sexy and the shiny and...
Dig it all out,
Throw it all away,
Or feed it to the dragon,
Or burn it in your pyre.
Just empty me
Please
Free me from my chains and whips and chocolate covered sweet tooth.
Unshackle me from my desires and my assumptions and my ego.
I don't know what will be left when you're done, if anything.
I don't even know if I want there to be anything left.
I don't know
Maybe I will die and be free or
Maybe I will live and be free.
I don't know
Just do your work
I am ready
Empty me
Drain my veins of all this pain,
Of all this longing and starving and reaching.
Empty me
Pull my bones from my body and let me crumple to the ground, Let me fall in a heap,
Let me melt and shrivel and rot.
Let the flies lay their eggs in my crevices.
Let the maggots feed on my surrender.
Empty me
Pull my head out my ass and turn me inside out,
Then scrub me spotless.
Empty me
Turn me upside down and dump me out.
Dump out my keys and my spare change and my lip gloss.
Dump out my hamster wheel and my timepiece and my calendar.
Empty me
Shake me and shake me until who I think I am slides out of my skin.
And then throw my empty shell into the fire.
Empty me
Take me apart,
Piece by piece,
And throw away everything that's not true, not real, not pure,
All the lies and the shame and the pretty and the smart and the sexy and the shiny and...
Dig it all out,
Throw it all away,
Or feed it to the dragon,
Or burn it in your pyre.
Just empty me
Please
Free me from my chains and whips and chocolate covered sweet tooth.
Unshackle me from my desires and my assumptions and my ego.
I don't know what will be left when you're done, if anything.
I don't even know if I want there to be anything left.
I don't know
Maybe I will die and be free or
Maybe I will live and be free.
I don't know
Just do your work
I am ready
Empty me
Beautiful
I am so grateful for this Collective, this safe space that has allowed me to dive into myself and discover the treasures and the shackles that have resided in my heart and my gut. I am grateful for the support and encouragement to follow the threads that tie the pieces of me together and the ones that have been severed and left frayed and hanging. I have been witnessed without judgment and praised for my willingness to dig deep and show up. I have shocked and pleased myself with my audacity, my vulnerability, my authenticity. This process has opened doors and windows in my being and invited the light to shine in, clearing the dust and cobwebs from long forgotten or ignored corners within and revealing a brilliant, sparkling diamond at my core. I am altered. I am present. I am beautiful.
I have never before felt such a beauty as this light radiating from the center of my being. I spent years in wonder and confusion about the lack of true love and caring I received in a culture that taught me that I should have everything I want because I was beautiful. And I knew I was beautiful, but I felt ugly. Ashamed of the shadowy labyrinth within, I couldn't love myself.
Yes, the labyrinth was shadowy, and scary, and full of dark corners and dead ends but I found the courage to walk through it in prayer. With compassion for the broken pieces of myself I found strewn throughout, I gathered them into my arms and loved them into my heart, piecing myself back together. Accepting the imperfections and ugliness along the path, understanding their roles and forgiving myself my past choices, I transmuted the labyrinth. The darkness dissipated as the light shone through, inspiring a rainbow of flowers to bloom, inviting bees and butterflies, alive with purpose and perching birds who filled my ears with their glorious song. Approaching the center, my tensions melted and my senses became alive as the past and future fell away and my spirit shone through the present moment, imbuing my being with deep appreciation and contentment. As I reached my destination, I fell to my knees in complete reverence of the indescribable beauty shining from the crystalline, rainbow core. My essence. My center. Me.
I have never before felt such a beauty as this light radiating from the center of my being. I spent years in wonder and confusion about the lack of true love and caring I received in a culture that taught me that I should have everything I want because I was beautiful. And I knew I was beautiful, but I felt ugly. Ashamed of the shadowy labyrinth within, I couldn't love myself.
Yes, the labyrinth was shadowy, and scary, and full of dark corners and dead ends but I found the courage to walk through it in prayer. With compassion for the broken pieces of myself I found strewn throughout, I gathered them into my arms and loved them into my heart, piecing myself back together. Accepting the imperfections and ugliness along the path, understanding their roles and forgiving myself my past choices, I transmuted the labyrinth. The darkness dissipated as the light shone through, inspiring a rainbow of flowers to bloom, inviting bees and butterflies, alive with purpose and perching birds who filled my ears with their glorious song. Approaching the center, my tensions melted and my senses became alive as the past and future fell away and my spirit shone through the present moment, imbuing my being with deep appreciation and contentment. As I reached my destination, I fell to my knees in complete reverence of the indescribable beauty shining from the crystalline, rainbow core. My essence. My center. Me.
Anabella
I'm stroking the fine hairs on her temple, following them towards her ear and down the side of her cheek. They curve into the dip of the softness and down over her cheekbone. I am mesmerized by the silkiness of the hair and how it grows in such a perfect wave, the kind of wave that women have put so much effort into creating, pinning, molding, spraying, years ago when it was in fashion. On her, it just grows that way, natural, beautiful. Everything about her is mesmerizing to me. I have been totally captured by her perfection. Her deep, dark eyes are a portal to a higher realm of being. The sweet smell of her head is like the most comforting embrace and the softness of her skin is so smooth and silky my fingers revel in the sensation of caressing her. I am in rapture. I am completely unaware of my surroundings: the whirling of the dishwasher, the intermittent roar of the traffic on the road, the swishing of the breeze through the trees outside the window, the random pieces of life scattered around the room, the unpacked boxes in the corner. I am rocking, on a glider chair, a smooth, soothing motion, back and forth, back and forth, while I gaze at her perfection and stroke her hair. I marvel at the strength of her cheek muscles as they work to draw nourishment from my body. I smile as her tiny hand grasps at my chest seeking more energy, more love, more chi.
Sometimes, when I'm nursing, I remember to consciously give her my chi, using the taoist micro-cosmic orbit exercise I've been practicing. I squeeze my perineum as i inhale my chi from my ovaries up my spine to my crown. Then I exhale my chi down my front, into my breasts and my milk. Often, when I would do this, my milk would let down and flood into her mouth. Sometimes, it would be too much and she would let go, the milk gushing out and spraying her in the face. I would laugh and help her to latch on again, wiping the milk from her cheeks and eyes.
I love nursing my baby. I am feeding her, not just milk and calories. I am feeding her my love, my attention, my time, my presence. I am feeding her intention, possibility, hope. I am feeding her a future.
Sometimes, when I'm nursing, I remember to consciously give her my chi, using the taoist micro-cosmic orbit exercise I've been practicing. I squeeze my perineum as i inhale my chi from my ovaries up my spine to my crown. Then I exhale my chi down my front, into my breasts and my milk. Often, when I would do this, my milk would let down and flood into her mouth. Sometimes, it would be too much and she would let go, the milk gushing out and spraying her in the face. I would laugh and help her to latch on again, wiping the milk from her cheeks and eyes.
I love nursing my baby. I am feeding her, not just milk and calories. I am feeding her my love, my attention, my time, my presence. I am feeding her intention, possibility, hope. I am feeding her a future.
Adore Me
Adore me.
Gaze on me with your twinkling eyes
Enticing forth my smiles and sighs
Adore me.
Tickle me with your sideways longing,
your playful breath and kindred wanting
See me.
Look past my perfectly banked racetrack hips
my convertible sports car painted lips
See me.
Take in my aching, confused beauty,
my statuesque form, reporting for duty
Cherish me.
Show me your heart can dive under my skin
Delight in the treasures you discover therein
Cherish me.
Promise your guts as you turn yourself out
Paint my world safe with my pain and my doubt
Treasure me.
Embrace my quivering, tentative heart.
Cradle my spirit as I fall apart
Treasure me.
Hear the whispering cry of my deepest desire
hold your steady flame to ignite my fire
Gaze on me with your twinkling eyes
Enticing forth my smiles and sighs
Adore me.
Tickle me with your sideways longing,
your playful breath and kindred wanting
See me.
Look past my perfectly banked racetrack hips
my convertible sports car painted lips
See me.
Take in my aching, confused beauty,
my statuesque form, reporting for duty
Cherish me.
Show me your heart can dive under my skin
Delight in the treasures you discover therein
Cherish me.
Promise your guts as you turn yourself out
Paint my world safe with my pain and my doubt
Treasure me.
Embrace my quivering, tentative heart.
Cradle my spirit as I fall apart
Treasure me.
Hear the whispering cry of my deepest desire
hold your steady flame to ignite my fire
Guilty Diapers and Snotty Shame
There is absolutely nothing that can prepare you for motherhood. I mean, nothing compares to it. Being totally responsible for the well-being and growth of another human being is huge and all-consuming. The demands on your body, your resources, your time. The sacrifice of your dreams, your desires, your needs. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the unconditional love and the unsurpassed beauty and the deep fulfillment, but, sometimes, I just feel trapped. There, I said it. Motherhood is a trap. Once you take that first step down this road, there is no turning back, you are intimately tethered to this person forevermore. All ways, all the time.
In the beginning you sacrifice everything, including your basic needs, like showers and decent meals. If you go into it feeling like you have a spiritual grasp on who you are in the big picture, that will soon fade as your life becomes focused on first chakra, survival issues. You might even have a moment somewhere down the road where you pull your head out of the shitty diapers and barf rags and lament the loss of your spirituality. If you get a moment.
Sure, as the years progress, you get more time to yourself and you can pursue your dreams and desires again, but that tether is so strong, you may find that you cannot be totally present with your own freedom. You may be taking a relaxing bath and find you can't completely relax because you're missing your child or you're wondering how they're doing or maybe you even feel guilty for taking time away from them. Motherhood is wrought with land mines like guilt and shame and ancient threads of unworthiness passed down through your maternal lineage.
On the flip side though, those land mines are powerful opportunities to heal yourself and your lineage, to break the dysfunctional chains of your families. If you can stay afloat for the first several years and avoid sinking in the guilty diapers and snotty shame, you will come to a point where your commitment to your child and your own healing will begin to sprout wings. As you forgive yourself for the dysfunctional patterns you learned from your own mother and rekindle your connection to Spirit, with your child, those wings will grow and, together, you can fly free of the cage that many mothers come to secretly and shamefully resent.
In the beginning you sacrifice everything, including your basic needs, like showers and decent meals. If you go into it feeling like you have a spiritual grasp on who you are in the big picture, that will soon fade as your life becomes focused on first chakra, survival issues. You might even have a moment somewhere down the road where you pull your head out of the shitty diapers and barf rags and lament the loss of your spirituality. If you get a moment.
Sure, as the years progress, you get more time to yourself and you can pursue your dreams and desires again, but that tether is so strong, you may find that you cannot be totally present with your own freedom. You may be taking a relaxing bath and find you can't completely relax because you're missing your child or you're wondering how they're doing or maybe you even feel guilty for taking time away from them. Motherhood is wrought with land mines like guilt and shame and ancient threads of unworthiness passed down through your maternal lineage.
On the flip side though, those land mines are powerful opportunities to heal yourself and your lineage, to break the dysfunctional chains of your families. If you can stay afloat for the first several years and avoid sinking in the guilty diapers and snotty shame, you will come to a point where your commitment to your child and your own healing will begin to sprout wings. As you forgive yourself for the dysfunctional patterns you learned from your own mother and rekindle your connection to Spirit, with your child, those wings will grow and, together, you can fly free of the cage that many mothers come to secretly and shamefully resent.
