“…I’m a (wo)man whose tragedies have been replaced, with memories tattooed upon my soul…”

Because I'm deep in the depths of my other writing, my writing to, and about, Chester, and cancer, but my thoughts, and heart, betray me so often I can't focus, there is this. Other thoughts that aren't those. They are all here, HERE, in my soul and my fingertips, the words I want to finish,  which I've been writing for almost a week. Today though, I've been riding the waves of memories from ages ago, tinged by anger, and hurt, or something, of right now, but I have to say something. Something… Because the other writing is as much about me as it is about him, and suicide, and depression, and cancer. But this one is about me, as I relate to him, and just me. And Liz Gilbert. (Eat Pray Love) And I don't know why I'm writing it, just that I'm supposed to.

This is not a cry for help blog. This is not an "I'm in a scary depressed place" writing. Because by the grace of what the fuck ever it is, as much as I am some insane mix of angry and sad right now, and clearly dancing with expansion that has left me exhausted I'm OK. I mean, I'm often these last few days on autopilot, and I would LOVE for now to be the moment of melting into the arms of the one I trust implicitly, who trusts me implicitly, and to just let go. (There, I said it, I SAID IT. I'd shout it from rooftops. If I could. Because as much as I'm scared to say I want {translation: need} that hug, I'm not scared to feel it at all, anymore. Mostly not scared. OK, sometimes a little scared but also, not. Fuck. Note to self: finish clearing fear of saying I need that hug, and of actually needing hug, etc.)

There's some sort of irony in the timing when need might be said (more than once) but… reality makes it not really possible to say. C'est la vie. I trust there is a reason to the timing of it all. Maybe now is a time for me to lean in, more than to lean on. Except I do know I'm not alone. That it is inherently impossible for me to ever be alone.

These things that I am going to say next are being "spoken" into smoke to lift them, carry them away, as they are what has been but does not still need to be. I will phrase them in the present tense as in this moment while I am writing, they to some degree still exist as my truth.

I have abandonment issues. Big fat the size of the Milky Way (galaxy, not candy bar, in case you weren't sure) abandonment issues. These stem from boringly typical, and fuckeduply atypical, events throughout the course of my life.

I have trust issues. Whatever is bigger than the Milky Way, (galaxy) is the size of my trust issues. I believe in the best of people. That people are inherently good. My half a hippy wants to bounce across the earth giving hugs, and cupcakes (except cupcakes with their processed flour, and sugar really aren't good for you, so that's kind of not a nice thing to give. But how lame would it be to give, like, celery, or cheese, which are actually better for you? I mean, I LOVE cheese, but, cupcake trumps cheese most of the time.) I will absolutely trust everyone, right until they give me reason to not. Or right up until I start to look for a reason to not. To look for, and find, the teeth that fit the scars, and then say the teeth came before the scars. And it's not just a male/female relationship trust issue thing, BTWs. I can not trust you irrespective of your gender. To not hold my past against anyone continues to be my quest.

My mind, if too much time is spent by me, alone in it, is a bad neighborhood. (I've stolen that from Chester, yes I have!) I over think, I over analyze, I "should" on myself, and have been known to spend entirely too much time looking over my shoulder, or into a figurative crystal ball trying to catch a glimpse of tomorrows. I have been prone to a melancholy I did not understand. I doubt my appearance, my intelligence, my worth, and second guess myself, a lot.

I have a fear that if I don't say everything I need to say RIGHT NOW, I will not have the chance to say it. I believe this stems in large part from ~ went to visit for a weekend, dude I was dating, who lived in another state. When time came for me to go home I said to him, in tears, "I'm afraid I'll never see you again." (Random, melodramatic, and clingy much, 19 year old Michelle?) He said "of course we'll see each other again, we have too much fun when we're together, to not." The following weekend I had a brief phone conversation with him. He said he was going to go for a ride on his motorcycle. He wrecked his bike. His injuries were catastrophic. I never saw him again. Each of his friends thought the other had called me to tell me. It was 5 days after his passing when I called to speak to him, and was told what had happened. So not random, melodramatic, or clingy, at all. I could genuinely have anxiety on the daily out of fear of losing someone I love, and not getting to tell them I love them, in general, or one last time. This is compounded by fear of something happening, and no one calling me to tell me.  So I often say too much, and its never enough.

I've made an art form of self-sabotage. Frequently because of attempting to fit into the boxes others think I should be in. As soon as I acquiesce and climb in, I start fucking things up, left, right and center, in a form of futile protest, as the only damage done is to myself. I can pinpoint every reason I have this tasty little habit, but, meh. Is it when I'm happy too, Chester? (Because he said of himself that he is {was. fuck.} never content, even when happy.)

As I re-read, I can say in all honesty, a lot of the above have decidedly been more my truths in my past than any time recently. But as they each have presented themselves to me tonight, they got included. Many of them find their origin in molestation when I was 7. I only mention it as it is one of the things Chester, and I, share as a commonality. Part of why I GET everything he said, in every interview I've seen, when he's spoken of his depression and where it has taken him.

*Cue smoke into which they will float away*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I listened to a brilliant Ted Talk given by Liz Gilbert titled "Your Elusive Creative Genius." Only 20 minutes long, but, a game changer if you choose to hear what it says. As it relates to me, to Chester, to Chris Cornell, and too all of the other ridiculously talented creative feelers I have ever known, what I HEARD above all was (screen captured 'cause I couldn't copy/paste)

liz

This proved to me once and for all that she is my hero, and possibly my spirit animal. Because I have spent YEARS thinking about WHY so many of my creative lovelies, are so fucked up. But more than that, seem to almost wear it like a badge of honor. "I'm starving for my art." Well, go you! You go right ahead and be that stereotype. Imma be over here, trying to create something, and also, eating. Since you'd rather starve, I'll eat your portion too. You've seen my ass, right?

In all seriousness though, in the years I was working with bands, and in my interactions with artists, always, I have had a very clear train of thought, that starving for one's art, literally and as a euphemism for a bunch of other dumb shit we do because we are "arteests" and sensitive, isn't really cool. Or fun. Or interesting. Also, its been done, to death. Literally. Irrespective of at a point being the girlfriend in the "what do you call a musician without a girlfriend? – homeless" joke, I always ALWAYS walked away from working with those bands who by choice were starving artists. Music was too important to me, people were too important to me, to do either the disservice of saying "Yeah, sure I'll watch you be your own worst enemy, in the name of creating art." My standard line, which was never just a line, but really IS the song of my soul, "keep pursuing your dream, while taking care of reality." Read: get a mother f'n J.O.B. if ya got to, so ya not living in your momma's basement, while you're trying to be the next (Chester Bennington.) Don't be a drug addict while thinking its cool to be a drug addict, because its not. If you accidentally become a drug addict, don't decide it's cool. No judgement. I've got that t-shirt. But heroin chic, is not.

I am not saying that Chester did anything he did, ever, much less at the end, because of the paradigm of the tortured artist. I do not assume to know what was in his head, and heart at any moment in time, less the time he told me exactly what was in his head and heart. (Which is part of another blog, and of a blog to come.) What I am however saying is, perhaps as a group, we should stop accepting that this is who we must be. How we must be. I understand, with a capital UNDERSTAND, how that may not be easy, because we do FEEL, so deeply, so everything, and because when I was in my darkest, most horrible place, I might have told someone attempting to shine a light in, to get fucked. But maybe if we shine a different light on it, each for ourselves, which will then affect the group of us, maybe it will help a little, until it helps a lot? Maybe if we nurture the tiny ridiculously talented creative feelers while they are still tiny, instead of discouraging their dreams, it'll be a preemptive strike but in a good way.

As I see it, Chester did not "go gently into that goodnight." No matter how that goodnight came about. I believe that Chester with every ounce of his energy worked to shift what needed shifting, inside himself. For himself. For EVERYONE. He put his life into his lyrics, in the most raw, and vulnerable of ways. He furthered his transparency by speaking candidly, and frequently about his hurts, and fucked-upnesses. I know many people are watching his interviews and posting them as his alleged cry for help. I think that's absolute shit. I think he was just being his honest self because he knew on some level that to be so would help him, and others. So maybe we can shift that too. Speaking about what hurts, or sucks, doesn't mean you're crying for help, or crying at all. Maybe its just that you know it is the right thing to do, for yourself, for others. Perspective baby. Get some. See where yours takes you. Might not be the same place I go, and that's cool.

Why I put myself so fully onto these "pages"is a combination of my NEED to create a something, joined with my NEED to work through my shit, and my HOPE that maybe my words will give a someone the tiniest something when they need it most. Even if its just because they read what I write about myself and think "this bitch is CRAZY, and I am absolutely NOT" right when they need to think they aren't crazy. Maybe in me they will find a kindred, and feel not so alone, even if they never speak to me. Or maybe they will reach out to me, as some have, and say, "You have been where I am right now, you are giving me hope that I will able to be happy again, someday." And I'll have a new friend, and so will they. THAT is what it is all about, really. Touching lives. Experiences. Making a difference. Helping others. And not being afraid to show our crazy, while also being happy, and creating.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

To Liz Gilbert, thank you for being so wise, and bad ass, and inspirational. Please don't ever stop writing. I mean, unless you want to. Also, tons of love to you, and your Rayya.

Thank you to those who today helped me to walk through the mini fire that popped up. I am so very grateful.

And to the one who unintentionally started the mini fire, because it's what you're supposed to do, I thank you too, for being you, and just being, and love you.

Chester, your thank you is in another writing. But also in my heart, which I know you know.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Title is an excerpt from "Into You" by Dead By Sunrise

Your Elusive Creative Genius – Liz Gilbert

 

 

Thank You For Not Being My Hero

Its important to say from the start, this is not a feminist “I don’t need no mans to save me” something. Mostly because I’m not a feminist. But also, I don’t need no mans to save me. Or womans. Or even a priest or minister, although I am sure there are those who will beg to differ, but that ship sailed when I was 6 so, get over it already! Also this is not a “be your own hero” thing. I dig the vibe that is trying to put out, but, that’s not what this is about.

These words have been trying to come out for days, have been partially written for days, as I’ve again, still, been walking, or sometimes what has felt like crawling, through so much that I don’t understand. The things that make me feel crazy, which also make me feel not crazy, that I in some moments fight,then surrender to, when I’m not contemplating running, or crying; with gratitude, or because so much feels like SO MUCH!

I keep it mostly inside because as much as I am pretty flexible about certainty these days, I feel pretty certain that all of what I am being brought to, or that is being brought to me, is a solo journey, except not really, because that is inherently impossible. More its about rolling around in what my intuition says, and what my truth is, rather than seeking counsel from “experts” or friends, or some random dude. Which that one, the random dude one, would be not really about the counsel thing, but more about an attempt to forget the everything, and to fake take away the lonely that sometimes creeps in. For as much as it is a quasi-solo journey though, it couldn’t possibly be any less about me.

If ever you (whomever you are, reading this) aspire to feel like a crazy dumb ass, have a “spiritual awakening” or whatever name is appropriate based on your particular flavor of beliefs. Then try typing those words, about yourself and see if you either laugh at yourself, or think ‘what in the actual fuck is occurring, because I don’t say shit like that!’ Especially if you weren’t ever spiritually “closed” nor were you seeking any sort of opening thing. And also if you roll your eyes every time you read the words “spiritual awakening” because it sounds so cheesy/pretentious, when you think it relates to you, you’ll feel like a crazy dumb ass, who a little bit wants to punch themselves for sounding like an idiot.

Maybe part of my “mission” will be to come up with a less stupid sounding expression for what I’m feeling/doing/have happening to me/I am happening to. Ascension is another frequently used term, but I don’t vibe with that either. It reminds me of Jesus, or the Virgin Mary, and Bible stories. All I know is, some crazy (cool) somethung is going down inside me/around me/in every version of me, and has been since last November. Well, really long before then, as I can pinpoint other dates that  parts of this journey started (continued) in this lifetime. But in November I had some sort of “quickening” like in Highlander. Except there can’t be only one, and while I often feel as if my head has fallen off, I’m pretty certain no hot Scottish dude is going to show up with his broadsword to chop it off anytime soon. I mean, hot British dude always  welcome. Chopping off of head, not so much.

To quote  (again, as I’ve used it in a previous blog) a brilliant line from Marianne Williamson “we are the ones that we have been waiting for”  and in thinking of a story also recounted in another blog, told by Denise Linn, from the Elders of Native American tribes, those who sacrificed themselves lifetimes ago, for a moment in the future/some other time, in which they were needed, are returning because that moment is now. And no matter how nuts I feel sometimes, no matter that “this”  and elements of it, triggers me, challenges me, causes me to dig so deeply into everything I think I know about myself, and my beliefs, in moments I feel raw, I’m all “game on” about this path.

If none of that blabber appears to have anything to do with the title, it really, actually does. So I’ll say it again; Thank You for Not Being My Hero.

Don’t get me wrong, there are many times where all I want is to be wrapped in arms I trust, and to just let gooooo. To not have to be in charge of anything, or worry about anything, or think about anything, for even just a minute.  And this isn’t a “Jesus take the wheel” (haha) thing I’m saying, I mean literal arms. Man arms. Preferably attached to a man. I’d love to just melt into the someone I trust implicitly, who trusts me the same. Chick arms are cool too, for hugs, or cuddling sometimes, but just not the same. Still though, I don’t want to be saved. Or rescued. 

I just FINALLY dipped out of the part of my life where “victim” was the brand I was “supposed” to wear. Victim is more itchy against my skin than cheap wool, uglier than polyester from the 70’s, and more constricting than Spanx. I don’t want to wear that ever again, even in the arms of one supposedly rescuing me from it. Bleh. 

So to my not heroes I need to say, thank you for not trying to swoop in, scoop me up, and “oh poor you-ing” me,  to the point I’d start to think “oh poor me” also. Thank you for instead of trying to make my boo boos all better, giving me your time, your moments, your humor, and your ear. Also, your voice, your opinions, your ideas, and thoughts, without insisting or even suggesting, that I make them mine, as they (my boo boos) healed on their own. 

Thank you for not spouting platitudes that would have annoyed the fuck out of me, but instead, sharing photos, quotes, stories, poetry, or music, meant to comfort me, make me laugh, distract me, or bring me to a warm, and fuzzy place.

Thank you for being whole enough in and of yourself, that you see me as, in and of myself, whole enough to be able to navigate everything I needed to navigate, until I saw myself as that whole, too.  And for patience, as I, like a Rottweiler puppy who has reached full size, am still a clumsy as hell, not having yet fully grown into myself, trip over my own feet while excitedly running through the world, and slip on the hardwood floor  because I’m just too busy wagging my tail to notice anything else going on.  But really, the growth spurt was fast, and my inside is still playing catch up with my “outside” so, thanks also for the patience when I jump on you because I’m just so happy to see you. I’ll grow out of it. Not the happy to see you thing, the having no chill thing.

Thank you for not trying to patch the holes of my insecurities you did not create, with whatever it would be that could fill them for a moment, but instead just BEING, as I remember I don’t need the insecurities. And for kissing my wounds, while not seeing them as disasters in my soul, but cracks in which to put your love (Paraphrased/bastardized from Emery Allen) while making no attempt to fix them, either. 

Also thank you for knowing I want you but don’t “need” you.  (Except sometimes. Shhh, don’t tell.) But also for not NEEDING me, but wanting me too. Thank you for being in your own ways, a brilliant shiny example to be followed, by me, by others, in our own way. 

Thank you most of all for the trust. In its defying of explanation, it is probably the most clearly ‘exactly as it is supposed to be’ thing I’ve ever known.

If you think that this might in part be for or about you, it probably is, because there is more than one not hero. And not heroes aren’t just boys, which still isn’t feminism but is fact.  There is also though, one SUPER not hero? Not SUPER hero? Whatever. One who has, by happenstance, which is more likely part of a “divine plan” not just held the mirror, but is the mirror, that has allowed me to see the possibility of all, to paraphrase myself. 

To each of you, but most of all to YOU, I send my endless gratitude and love. You’re the most amazing not heros any girl could ever have! Thank you for not thinking me crazy. Or liking my flavor of crazy. Whichever works best for you. And at least one of you is going to one day, when I write a book, which will then be made into a movie, in which my not heros will be featured,  end up wearing some skin tight something or other, irrespective of your not hero status, just because it will be fun. 

Floating Around With My Head In The Clouds

An alternate title could be “Jesus Christ Michelle, shut the fuck up already.” But I’d hate to offend anyone. Which is a lie because if you’re offended by my use of those words strung together, 200% truth is you should never read what I write. Unless you enjoy being offended. In which case, you’re more fucked up than me. (More fucked up than I? It’s 430 AM I don’t know which is correct.)

The thing is, I can’t say enough, I don’t have the answers to anything. I used to think I had some answers, which as it turns out were mostly based on what others told me the answers were. And were wrong.

From where I lay right now, which is to say in a home so new to me, as I bleary eyed stumbled to find the bathroom as the rude Restless Soul Syndrome woke me again, I wasn’t sure which way to turn outside my bedroom door, I know less than I used to. I can’t recall in which kitchen cupboard I put what. (Other than those which make logical sense. Do not make me verbally slap you because you don’t know that your dishes should go in the top cupboard closest to the dishwasher!) Outside my apartment, I don’t know where a grocery store is, or gas station, or how to get to the closest Wawa. (If you don’t know Jersey you don’t know Wawa, and I’m sad for you.)

For reasons that have little to do with being severely directionally impaired, I can’t drive to my new job without using my Waze app. Once I am at work at least twice a day I make an ass of myself wandering the halls in search of a restroom, or breakroom, I’d been to earlier. Thankfully I know the industry I’ve gone back into, and learn new software easily, but otherwise most of my days are spent learning things new to me.

I think it’s fair to say that, inside and out, 75% of me, and my life, has 100% changed in the last year. Which is great given the shit show my life had in many ways been for too long. Certainly I’m used to change with my life of permanent impermanence that to others has made me appear unstable, or irresponsible, or flakey, but these changes have been BIG. And I’m not talking geography here.

There are very few immutable truths I’ve held much of my life, those being; my kids before all else, which also means me letting them go to be who they are. If I had to choose between never hearing music again or never having sex again, I’d give up sex. (But also fuck that Sophie’s choice! It’s just to illustrate a point!) For me, blood is NOT thicker than water, and it doesn’t make me an asshole to believe this. I would have traded big boobs, and a big ass, to be a Ballerina. Most forms of math I was forced to learn in school were useless in real life, like I said they’d be! And I fit in everywhere, and also, nowhere, and I’m cool with it.

Also immutable (except those years it wasn’t) is that I’m just, me, and I actually do love me (again  now).  I’ll speak my mind clearly, other than when I stumble over my words because there isn’t (or is) eye contact. Part of me is also about struggling with when to speak, and when to not. Like, timing is everything, but there’s no time like the present. Except maybe my present being the “no time like” isn’t the same as that of someone else. Maybe their puppy is sick and they don’t have the capacity to hear my ramble. And I forget that sometimes.

So right now expansion is happening rapid fire.  Things I didn’t ask for, hope for, dream of, or even know existed, seem to be the foundation upon which I was built, but didn’t realize it until ideas found me, and said “don’t worry baby, you’re not crazy, or a bad person.” And there’s a limited audience whom I sought out to support the “not crazy or bad” thing, cause they’ve been where I (think) I am, who may get this, if it is what is, with whom I can discuss the parts of it which can be discussed. 

But for as much as it makes sense, it’s also scary if I let it be scary, and lonely until it’s not,  and in a run away as fast as you can, sort of way. Where I want to look around and be all Jersey girl and say, “fuck outta here wit dis bullshit, have you MET me? Why would I be a fitting person for this role?” But I feel like I’ve gotten a “this is your mission and you can’t not accept it” note. 

Even if I’m reading a million signs wrong, the direction I’m headed is the same irrespective of who is along for the ride, and it’s good! I will always have to be at least ok, no matter who is coming along. 

So while I still don’t have answers I now at least feel like I get myself, and my life, a bit more. Permanent impermanence has been on purpose to allow me freedom (just another word for, nothing left to lose) and flexibility of sorts. A constant quest for deeper truths without blind faith in anything or one, has allowed me to REALLY find my truths. (Work in progress)

And for those who may wonder or may need to know, each step I am making is made with integrity, love (global and specific) like I’ve never known, and highest good for all as it’s driving forces. My focus is inside me, healing my me, raising my vibration, and watching for the synchronicities as a (beloved) friend has helped me to remember to do.

So all this being said, I’m tired AF, and it’s time to get up for work. Also, I need a break from my own head, from deep thoughts and emotions that come with rapid fire transformation. I need to go out and play, to shake my ass (dance!) hear the ocean. Sometimes too, I just need to shut the fuck up, like right now.

You Were Written Into The Song Of My Soul

Maybe laying here in my bed, typing this into my phone, the words bubbling once again below the surface will find their way to light, in a way they were reluctant to do when it was the couch, and the laptop, and me.

There’s a whirlwind now, circling around me. Everything is changing, inside, and out, and its brilliant, and beautiful, and I’m peacefully overwhelmed. Because I wrote maybe I need to shed skin again, and God, Universe, The Flying Spaghetti Monster, whatever,  responded with “get naked, baby!” So naked I am, in the whirlwind, at peace, overwhelmed, but not. No need to be in control of any of it, but also in control of it all because; manifestation.

And it never looks like I think it will but always looks like what I wish I’d dreamed it to be, now that I let go of what it is, or will be, and just let go. With tears of unknown origin once again finding their way to me, this time I’m not on my knees, or even surprised. This time I’m grateful. Each tear that clings to a lash, reluctant to fall, or makes its way out amongst a rush of it’s peers, is a spontaneous ritual of purification. Is a signifier simultaneously of a closure, and a further opening.

Absent all fear, the step forward, upward, sideways, whatever it’s meant to be, leaves behind another footprint in memory’s past. And I have no more answers to questions than I had when I finally chose myself that day 7 months ago, except so much now makes sense.

Whether it is a matter of heightened awareness or a quantitative rise in frequency/frequency of occurrences, synchronicities abound. And what I need when I need it, words or actions or phone calls or songs or love, reach for me, take hold of me, assure me here is where I’m meant to be. Here where I have the most incredible people in my life. And where magic(k) is everywhere.

I’m still just half a hippy, (the half that will always be well groomed, and never wear patchouli) but in my halfness I am (holy) fully in a place of knowing love more deeply, more intimately, than in any time (in this lifetime) before now.  Love generally love specifically love globally. Starting with me, for me, for both halves (still really both wholes) of me, and with love for all, even those I maybe don’t like, or for whom my first thought isn’t loving, there is love.

Where once I thought a mirror was held before me I’ve come to understand there is no mirror held but is simply a mirror. My mirror into which I reflect back as it’s mirror.  Ideas about, and descriptors of,  history lessons, and titles, none of that matters. Tomorrow, or next week or 2 months from now, it just is. (Everything of light, and bright, and cool)

This is all about me,  but it can never be just for me. While naked 11 (which is not the same naked as skin shedding naked) may appear to be some days a default setting, the absolute truth hovers more around (veiled? robed?) 8 or whatever number below 10 best expresses authenticity & transparency with some (tiny amount of) reserve, except when expressed as frequency (Hz) which makes the number at least 500.  And isn’t about appearance, and only meaningful to those (one) who hear(s) what it/I say(s).

7 months in the past and 15 days into the future are significant, but right here, and now, is where I work to stay.

—–

Fell asleep at 3:00AM, phone in hand, typing. I guess this is the place at which the words stop.

Angel

Come find me. 

I am here, 

where I kiss the sun, 

and burn with the moon. 

Where I hear your feelings, 

and dream your thoughts. 

Waiting, 

but never just, waiting. 

—————–

This isn’t a bloggy blog post, and it’s not poetry unless you want it to be. This started as an Instagram thingy, turned tweet, in an almost mocking way. (Mocking myself, to be clear. Not my writing. My romantic, sappy, emo artsy fartsy creative feeler-ness)

 It ends up I like it in spite of it being the kind of writing I often hate. It’s ended up a love song to both halves of me, which are actually both wholes of me, but that just sounds weird. And also I wanted it somewhere I could find it, in case it needs to say more someday. 

This is not about sitting around waiting for my missing love. I did that, in a manner of speaking, waited to be seen, to matter, and watched years slip by. Highly overrated. And also, my love is not missing. For whatever that means in the moments after this one.  

And tomorrow is another step forward. Tomorrow is the continuation of beginning, again.  Tomorrow is actually 10 steps forward. So if you feel shaking, it’s just my chakras being cleared. And if you hear music, it’s just my soul remembering it’s song. 

The title of this? Fuck if I know why. They just told me to call it angel. So I did. 

Song For Johnny

Non-specific words force their way from my fingers, in a desperate attempt to escape (my heart?) where they have lived since before I knew them. Without understanding of why at all, and without desire to be so crass as to say what it is they actually might mean. Insistent fucking words once woven together like braided ribbon, wrapped tight around a mystery, untangled with the passing of days. Weeks. Months.


This isn’t a song, and there’s no one named Johnny, and this started out as something like automatic writing, in February, and its now the ass-end of April, and at some point most of the draft as it originally existed,  was somehow automatically “unwritten”…   Whatever it is, or was (not?) asks now to come out…

Johnny’s song is; missing what you’ve never had, so you can’t possibly miss it, except you do. It’s (a) dream(s) that bend space, and time, to reach across ages, and reunite souls; sort of.

Johnny’s song is, in moments, that which makes you (not sad) cry for the intensity of the everything that rushes past you, around you, through you, like the coldest winter’s air. Except it’s everything that couldn’t possibly ever be cold… It elicits tears of release, and confusion, of wondering why,  and what are you supposed to do with the everything that was supposed to be not really anything, or not at all. It is the grey of every question you’ve ever had, washed away by the sublime peace of knowing that the questions don’t matter because sometimes things just, are.

Johnny’s song is an “of course I love you”  because to think I don’t would be to imply that there is a way I could, not – when the crossing of stars, and connecting of planets, deemed it to be so. Without understanding of what it is now, or attachment to what it ultimately may be, it is being first drawn in by timbre of an unknown voice, unexpectedly become familiar – love’s song.  It is strength, and confidence, and gentle vulnerability. Complex in its simplicity. Borne of all that is beauty, and light.  If time has a beginning, it was then that this song began, the score for a first meeting of (souls?)

I still don’t know what it’s meant exactly to say, this Song for Johnny.  Or why the night was without rest, as they fed me lines I summarily rejected, once figurative pen, half asleep, met paper. If they want it different then they shouldn’t have unwritten it the first time around. And maybe they is just me, who visits only in heightened states of (emotion.)  Or maybe it’s something more.

And while I will never tire of Johnny’s Song, it’s time to stop writing (this) and launch it into the ether so I stop looking over my shoulder at it. Maybe then my muse, with her ridiculous randomness, will have enough space to conjure something new.

“…So We Must Love While These Moments Are Still Called Today, Take Part In The Pain Of This Passion Play…”

Listening to:  Everything Indigo Girls (again) which started (this time) here “Galileo”

12 years ago, 2005, in the span of 5 months, my confidant, greatest supporter, in many ways my mentor, my teacher, my almost-mother-in-law become dearest friend, Roxy, 5 days before my trip to Denver to see her, lost her (2nd) battle with cancer; dear, sweet, YOUNG boy, sound engineer working with the band I was managing, Chris, just starting his career making music beautiful, was taken literally by fire; and my niece, Cristina angel completed whatever it was she’d decided to come here for, and crossed back over to where she was free from the medical mystery of a body she’d occupied for not quite 11 years, this time around. And what I thought was forever (and real, and passionate, and nurturing, and healing, and spiritual, and healthy, and everything beautiful) love, found me. I wonder sometimes, had it not been for all the death that preceded the finding of me by (love?) might I have made different choices. Maybe. But I made the choices I made, and really, who the fuck knows. And now here I am… exactly where I want to be, at my core, happier than I’ve ever been.

In 5 days, in a courtroom far away, a Judge will wave her magic wand, and the life, and marriage, formerly known as mine, will be legally, formally, officially, eternally, over. And it’s good. I have outgrown that marriage, and the person I was when in it, and the person to whom I was married. I never understood until a few months ago that people can outgrow each other, their relationships, their marriages. I got it in terms of friendships, but not beyond that. I get it now. From my own experiences, and those of some others who have, or are going through this. They don’t have to involve things such as domestic violence, and addiction, for one to outgrow the other. Or both to outgrow each other, and the situation.  Moving on, walking away, is not something bad. It is not a sign of failure, or of lack of integrity. In fact, it is likely the exact opposite of that in some cases. (Such as for someone I will be quoting later in this writing, who helped me to shift my perspective on this topic.)

In one month’s time, my littlest angel, Ari, will be ascending a level higher toward her dreams, starting out on the road-trip, that is really a (permanent) move to Los Angeles. So much everything cool, and good with that. But cool, and good, isn’t always synonymous with easy, and free of sadnesses of sorts.

In two months time, I’ll be moving, locally, somewhere. As (accidentally) as accustomed as I am to moving, for some reason I didn’t think I’d be doing so again, quite this soon. I have always been “lucky” or whatever it is that has my back in this life, so things always work out, but, this just feels a little heavy this time, which is throwing me a bit off balance.

—-

I’m over-thinking, and under-doing, and not breathing enough, but also, breathing sometimes too much. Maybe I need to get high? Or laid? Or swim in the ocean? Take a road trip. Spend more time in meditation? Allow myself to fit into a box, and be suited to a label? Live more in this world, and less in whatever the one is that so often calls to me? Drive until I get lost, and found again? I definitely need to sing again. And to dance more often, with absolute abandon, in a crowd of people doing the same, to share that energy.

——

From Elizabeth Gilbert – one of my favorite authors, and humans:

Yesterday, I asked my Fear, “How are you doing, my old friend? What’s going on with you?”

My Fear said, “I’m so tired. Trying to keep everyone and everything safe has completely exhausted me. I can’t do this anymore. Somebody else needs to be in charge now.”

And then I heard Love speak. She said, “Let me take it from here, babe.”

That’s when we all started breathing again.

Elizabeth Gilbert – Love this lady

——

I am now self-aware enough that I have been watching myself slip into where fear, or something similar to it, which is not shiny, or beautiful, has started to be a little bit in charge again. Not fear of a something, or a someone, or an event. Non-specific fear, that I’d thought was relegated to my past as a way of life, or even just an interlude. Not to say that I don’t know what some of the “triggers” are, but, triggers aren’t inherently the boss of me. And also, sometimes triggers only have the slightest hint of a fragrance past, which strikes the chord of a memory of a something that wasn’t pleasant, so making the decision to believe that the top notes, and finishing notes, and all in between, are exactly the same as the scent of experience past, is just, stupid.

So I look deep inside myself to see what’s going on, and I look to the planets, and stars, sun, and moon, to see what is maybe their part in all of this. I wrap my arms around myself when need be, remind my me that this healing is a process, and that my shade of crazy is actually quite beautiful, and that which sets me apart. Not above, or below, but apart. I (for once) reach out to others to talk to them about it, this (slightly) off balance moment I’m having.

The origins of fear –

Knowingly putting myself into situations which may result in me getting hurt in the end. But that’s a little bit what this human experience is about in total, so I kick my own ass, widen my view, and remember that I’d be bored, and filled with regret, if I didn’t take the risks of LIVING  vs the safety of existing.

Never afraid of change, but sometimes when a lot of it comes all at once, and when at least a part of it means (physically) letting go (again) (because it has seemed sometimes that universe has wanted to say to me that my super power in this life is letting go of anyone I love, but not because they die, but rather due to circumstances I’d never seen as remotely possible) I stumble, and momentarily clench my hands to grip more tightly, instead of releasing.

Feeling a lack of contentedness for my todays, because I’m very excited for my tomorrows. I got a little high, I think, on the fast pace at which things were changing, and moving (inside, and outside of me) for a while. Instead of appreciating the calm, and matching my energy to the rhythm, and in spite of knowing that a slow groove builds the foundation, so that when the crescendo comes, it is of mind-blowing proportions, I focused on the “high.”

That my wants will be perceived as neediness. That I’ll forget, again, that “no wo/man is an island” and won’t let myself be held, or nurtured, because that means vulnerable. And that vulnerable is scary as fuck for everyone who has any amount of living under their belt, and as far as I can tell, a lot scarier for those who have experienced years of betrayal, and betrayal by everyone in their life ever sworn by lineage or deed, to protect “you.”

That I will be seen (not by anyone in particular) to be “less than” because I don’t have a plan for 2 months from now, much less 10 years from now. Because all the good people, right people, best people, have a solid foundation, a firm plan, own a house, aren’t divorced, have a college degree, and a linear career path. They also don’t feel as if their life will be incomplete if they don’t travel to certain countries. And especially by 50 years of age, they have very firm roots planted somewhere, with someone, the end.

That what is before me, which is burning inside of me to know, and has been since before I knew it was, is held by unseen forces, and just carrot on a stick, with which I will later be smacked.

I want to write about shadows (in which I am not meant to live) because I am the girl who (metaphorically) sings from (metaphorical) sun drenched mountaintops, and dances on them too, not in the shadows. But also not in spotlights. Sun light. Glitter light. Neon light. Lava lamp light. Strobe light. Because I have a primordial need, and unquenchable thirst, for all that is light, and bright, but am not concerned with getting attention. Its not that shadow dims my light, or that (momentary shadow dwelling) is forced (because it is my choice). I’m just not very good at it. So now I’ve written about shadows… without saying anything at all.

These words that are my own, which had such another meaning to me, for me, when I wrote them 2 days ago.  My lovely Bloom says “Why are you doing that to yourself? You’re missing out on the joy of today!” And I know she’s right.  So I take a night off from the weight of all I’ve been carrying, am amused by the couragesness, or craziness, of those much too young for me to take seriously, and take more shots than I mean to. I have another conversation filled with laughter, childhood memories, and connections that defy space, time, and logic.   I allow vulnerability to have a moment or 2. And then hours of poetry in the form of lyrics, and harmonies, and melodies, fill my world. And I let love take over,  recall that vulnerability is absolutely precious, sacred, holy, rare, remember I’m not in shadow, I’m bathed in light, just not in the same way I’m used to, and again throw my arms wide open, and step forward without fear, into whatever might be, in every aspect of my life. 


Listening to: Still on Indigo Girls – Below quotes are from some of their songs. Brilliant, inspiring, intelligent, thought provoking, evocative, lyricists, they are.

“Of all my demon spirits, I need you the most”

“Working through the grammar of my fears”

“The hardest to learn was the least complicated”

“Now we all are chosen one’s”

“My place is of the sun, and this place is of the dark”

“The less I seek my source for some definitive, the closer I am to fine”

“And when you’re learning to face the path at your pace every choice is worth your while”

Triggered and Release

Listening to: Ed Sheeran “Save Myself” “…I gave you all my energy and I took away your pain, Cause human beings are destined to radiate or drain…So before I save someone else, I’ve got to save myself But if I don’t then I’ll go back to where I’m rescuing a stranger
Just because they needed saving, just like that Oh I’m here again, between the devil and the danger But I guess it’s just my nature…

—————–

trig·gered
ˈtriɡərd/
adjective
adjective: triggered
  1. (of a mechanism) activated by a trigger.
    “a triggered alarm”
    • (of a response) caused by particular action, process, or situation.
      “a triggered memory of his childhood”

A friend posted on Facebook a few days ago, an article originally from Time Magazine several years ago, which contained pictures of a woman being physically abused by her boyfriend. (I’ll link at the bottom of the blog) Not reenactments, but actual photos. The why is explained in the article, so I won’t go into it. I clicked the link posted by my friend, wondering what would be my reaction to seeing a woman abused, as not so long ago I had been. My only real reactions were to feel sad for the woman in the pictures, and of the abusive man to think “wow, I know him. That posture, and ‘poses’ are so familiar. What a fucking asshole he is!” Other than that, there was nothing. Which didn’t really surprise me because the physical hits were always easier for me to take than the mental/emotional hits, so it stands to reason now that I’m healing (was always so fucked up?) that seeing the images, didn’t trigger me.


What had happened was…. A few days ago something was said to me, that in the moment I had questions about, which I didn’t ask, and I have since then (unintentionally?) ruminated on what was said. Or on the story behind what was said. And I held my past against it, but not in the accidental good way that I discovered those words can mean, but rather in the “here is what my truth has been,” and I decided that a something that is happening now is a lot like something that had happened then, and I (subconsciously) started to hold my breath, and get scared, and decide what is going on, is what had gone on, and that everything beautiful is blurry. And maybe its not beautiful. And maybe this, and maybe that. And the bottom line is that I fucked up, because I didn’t ask the questions. And I’m not sure why I didn’t ask. Except the thing about questions asked is that they get answered.Sometimes answers are “nothing you wanna hear.” Also, I have (had) been conditioned to believe that it was not OK for me to ask questions. That I was a crazy bitch for thinking questions needed to be asked, or just trying to start fights, and rock boats for the sake of it.

So the triggering thing for me, (what has triggered me) is a scary closet monster, that also has an equally scary Siamese twin attached to it.  I’m triggered by a something, and I’ve also “reverted” to a response which is familiar, and painfully comfortable/uncomfortable, in it’s familiarity. And I’m really, really hard on myself, so, healing isn’t supposed to be in total a process, it’s supposed to be instantaneous, and I’ll never again feel anything like I’ve felt before, and I’ll never fuck up again. But I am, and I did, and here I am.

This is all written for me, and you…(the person who will one day, and unexpectedly, find themselves triggered as fuck)  because I fully plan to be one of the human beings who radiate, not drain! Its not the words that were said to me, or the story behind them, that matter, at all. It is my reaction to any, and all of it, that matters. Had I taken a beat, and in the moment, asked my questions, I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to get spun out. I also though, could have chosen to not get spun out. I could opt to be one of those brilliant, beautiful creatures who always remembers to breathe all Pranayama style, through everything, instead of being spun girl, even with unasked, and unanswered questions floating about in the ether.

Its been several days since I started this writing. I’ve revisited it several times, but couldn’t quite pick it back up. What I have done though, is step back from myself to remember that I spent a good 10 years having my head fucked with in really major ways. I do not play the victim card here, or ever. Because fuck that. But also a little bit, go easy on yourself girly, its not even been a year, and you weren’t that “normal” to begin with! Add to that the last week saw too much interaction with the ex, again for purposes of getting the divorce mutha-fuggin DONE, and having to deal with his – interesting version of everything -. Try as he might, he doesn’t hurt me anymore. He does exhaust me though, and I can’t wait to never have to deal with him again.

Something else has been hitting me the last week or so, in spite of being triggered, (read: a little bat shit crazy) and that’s how lucky/blessed or whatever it is, that I am. (I get very confused about the blessed thing, because that almost implies to me a deity on high, choosing like some omnipotent, omnipresent, Oprah, who gets good shit, and who doesn’t.) Anyway, long before I started talking about the domestic violence, I started joining groups for those who had experienced it, and while I don’t wish to minimize anything, I also have to say, all things being equal, my ass got lucky! Some of the women who share their stories, they are still running, and hiding, from these crazy fucks trying to kill them, AGAIN. They have children with their abusers, and they have to allow their children to spend time with these thugs. Or they were stay at home wives/mommys, who now have to figure out how to support themselves, and their kids, without their spouse. So I’m lucky I didn’t have the baby I wanted, with the ex, and that he never was the sole bread-winner in our marriage, and that even in his abuse he is apathetic, and won’t exert the effort it would take to do to physical harm to me, now that I’m far away.

Those are of course not the only reasons for which I consider myself lucky. Right now, as I type this, I am listening to the sound of a (beloved) beautiful voice singing brilliant songs, trying to figure out how I got so lucky/blessed, to be listening to them. Don’t get me wrong, low-self esteem girl has been kicked to the curb. I actually do know that I’m a pretty cool person, and that, just as I am lucky (that fuckin word!) to have the people in my life that I do have, they too are lucky to have me. But that being said, the confluence of stars, and planets, or spells cast, intentionally or otherwise, or whatever it is the magick that has made it possible for me to be hearing this music right now, is mind boggling to me.

So anyway, I’ll sort out the what triggered me, Don Miguel Ruiz, Fifth Agreement style – “Be skeptical, but listen,” and the conclusion of that situation doesn’t actually even matter. What matters is the awareness I have of everything in this moment, and the really real emotions which accompany the awareness. I’ll at least try to remember to go a little easy on myself, as I walk through this process, for whatever that means. If I start to spin again at some point, I’ll try to get myself to stop, the moment I become aware of it. And I’ll ask questions in the moment, instead of delaying! I really DON’T think there is anything to lose by being exactly who, and how I am, so I’m just going to keep putting my me out there, and trust that all is as it should be, whatever the fuck that means.

Last, because yesterday I found out a former co-worker, and long time friend, passed away, much too young, younger in fact than I, I wish to commit myself to remembering to tell people I love, that I do in fact love them, while I have the chance to. And to say kind things to people, even total strangers, just because. I WILL radiate, in every beautiful way possible. I will also keep releasing to the past, and to the winds, all that does not serve

It’s 4am, I’m sick again, and clearly in the throes of a great bout of insomnia, so I will NOT be proofing this before publishing, because I’m lazy and need sleep. Hopefully something of it makes sense. And to my friend Adam Andrews, I will dedicate this writing. You never did tell me what it was that I had done for you, so many years ago that touched you so deeply, but, whatever it was, I’m glad I did it. Rest in Peace friend, free from the pain you fought here. I’ll see you on the other side.

Portrait of Domestic Violence

Hiraeth

In the realm of the mystic
The land of the magi,
We’re taught to believe
love …
Can never be wrong.
But In magistrate’s world
The dimension of now
If from edges we tip
And fallings (aloud)
Then he will say
What she will say
Oh darling, dumb girl
Whatever ya thinkin?
Of course it is,
Of course you are,
So hopelessly perilously selfishly
wrong…
So I’ll consort with the faeries
The witches and nymphs
Float through the cosmos
Dance in rarefied air
I’ll feel my way through
Letting love be (aloud)

“…I guess this is growing up…”

Listening to:  “Poems, Prayers, Promises” – John Denver “…And talk of poems and prayers and promises and things that we believe in. How sweet it is to love someone, how right it is to care. How long its been since yesterday, and what about tomorrow….”

…And now when I start to write I find myself wondering how to honor my desire to reach out to, and be a voice of encouragement for, those who are or have experienced domestic violence/abuse, who may read what I am writing, and may find something of it value in it.

It is 6 days to the date of the one year anniversary of when I moved to New Jersey, putting hundreds of miles between myself, and the life formerly known as mine. With the exception of the on-going legal stuff, nothing about that life seems real.  Or at least it for the most part doesn’t. I am very far removed from the feelings I had while living in that ridiculous hell, kind of being in labor with a child, or at least my experience of it. I have a distinct memory of how intense was the pain. I know it was painful, but I can’t FEEL that pain anymore, and that for me, is the key to moving forward.

For most of my life, I have been comfortable in my own skin, (well, except for body image issues which have always plagued me, and my loathing of my distinctly Roman nose) other than that, at some point in my life, I became pretty cool with me. Right up until, whenever it was, that I started to question everything about me, and how I am, how I treat people, what I look like, how I dress, speak, walk, think. And then decided I had nothing of value to offer the world, and that there was nothing beautiful left for me, to include nothing about me being beautiful. My own skin, then, became my prison, as did my life. And how  unfathomable to me now that I was broken down to that point. I’m obstinate as fuck, so I really don’t know how someone managed to get so far in my head… or why I’d stay in that ridiculous hell for so long. It took me a long time to realize how far-reaching were the effects of the ridiculous hell.

A little over a week ago, I celebrated my 50th birthday. It exists in the realm of possibility that had I not been through the ridiculous hell, and the subsequent transformation to a person who is happier than I’ve ever been, that I might have approached that date, and that number, with some trepidation. Maybe I’d feel OLD, and the desire to hide that number from the world. Instead of that, to me it is just a number that doesn’t signify much, except for 51 times around the sun, and 51 years of experience as this person known as Michelle. And MAYBE, because of the ridiculous hell, and current happiness, I feel the most remarkable sense of freedom to be just exactly who, and how, I am. Where in the past I might have felt the need to justify or explain who I am, while being who I am, now my attitude is much more fuck it, I dig me, and if you don’t, that’s cool. I’m, just…. me. I don’t want to waste any more time in this life fighting with others in the hope that they’ll become OK with me, being me.

As turning 50 relates to the life that was formerly known as mine, beside being back to cool with who I am, one of the most profound changes for me, about me, is my appearance. I place very little value on my appearance, with the exception of how I personally feel about the way I look. I was taught a very valuable lesson long ago, that my looks may open doors for me, which I did not ask to have opened, but once they were, the “wowing” with my intellect, with the deeper parts of me, would be what led me to where I really wanted to be. Maybe that’s why I didn’t notice the changes. I had no idea that while I was going through the ridiculous hell, I looked about 100 years older than I now do. My posture changed, along with the way I carry myself. My smile became rare, and reluctant. My weight too, changed, thanks to the back injury, the medication for it, the months of immobility, and the years of being unable to work out, and for a long time, to even stand or walk for long stretches. Mostly though, it was my eyes that changed. My eyes which are green, sometimes light, sometimes dark, and other times are grey, except for when they lean more toward blue. The best way I can put it is, they lost their “light” as in, illumination. Rarely did they become wide with excitement, and wonder. Or soft, gentle, with the comfort of giving love in moments brought on by being able to deeply trust in the knowledge that I was safe to do so.

More than any of that, though, what having been through the ridiculous hell, and “growing up” have given me, is finally understanding what self-care means. To those I love, I will give everything I have, even when it may not seem that I am doing so to anyone on the outside. While that’s cool and all, I did, in the life formerly known as mine, even as I was fighting in words for myself, often forget about ensuring my needs were met. This of course increased 10 fold, as I imagine it does for everyone, due to the nature of the marriage formerly known as mine. Although I’ve no doubt he would say this isn’t true, because it is impossible to fulfill ALL the needs (which are really wants) of someone capable of breaking another emotionally, and being physically abusive, I was constantly chasing my own tail, in an effort to please him, placate him, meet his expectations. I accepted life in an abusive, passionless marriage, in which none of my mental, spiritual, emotional, or physical desires were met, FOR YEARS, with the hope that somehow doing, or not doing, something, would fix everything. Or at least fix something. Instead I became empty, and exhausted, hopeless and bitchy. Not to mention lonely.

While I do forever aspire to be a person who gives to those she loves, and I DO derive the most pleasure in life from giving, whether it be actual gifts, or just doing thoughtful, caring things, I also now know, I have to give to myself as well. I currently find myself in uncharted territory, and it would be VERY easy to lean too far to the meeting the needs of others, over my own. BUT, it would be equally easy to think of only what I need, and be inconsiderate, and quite honestly selfish. Having seen both sides of that coin, and finding both to be lacking in anything shiny, or happy, my chosen balance point is now more a “non-zero sum game.” Where I once may have held an inflexible boundary, albeit for what was meant to be my own good, I now place as much value on perspective, as I do on values.

I could stray now into deep-thoughts on the potentiality for situational ethics to be that about which I’m speaking, (which I am not) or further elaborate on what I am trying to say, without actually saying it. Instead of any of that, I think it is sufficient to be said that what I have learned at such a deep level, is that I can be loving, and giving, and do my sincere best to do no harm to others,  and still take care of myself. I was never much for black, and white thinking, but am even less so now. What I have often been though, is one who spins herself out, over-thinking things. I want always to be thoughtful, but I also want to not spend so much time thinking about things, that I miss out on living my life! 

I absolutely adore the idea of having a man in my life upon whom I dote, to whom I give caring, and pampering, and whose wants, needs, desires, I meet, and whose dreams, I help to see to fruition. But while also doing those things for myself! And accepting getting those same things in return! All while dancing around, singing, sometimes leaving a trail of glitter, and hopefully always, leaving a smile on a (beloved) face. I want always to give to my kids, and my grandson, and future grandchildren, but not to the detriment of myself. Same holds true for anyone with whom I cross paths. I don’t wish to ever again find myself empty, because I gave so much. Especially I don’t wish to ever again be giving, and be abused in return.

So for anyone who may be reading these words, who may need to read them, and who may find value in what they say, because I write of my experiences with you in mind, if it has not done, know that the pain WILL recede. It will fade to a memory, and it won’t hurt at all anymore. And when you finally find the strength to start giving caring again, because I get how it feels to think you’ll never have the energy to give a fuck about anyone or thing again, make sure your priority, in the most unselfish way possible, is you. Also, 5o is the new 30 so, there’s plenty of time to re-write the script, and the plot twists of your future, can be pretty amazing.

——————————-

Maybe because tonight, which is now actually last night, is (was) the new moon, and rooms, and people, were smudged, hearts, minds, and souls were opened to ask for wisdom, overtone chanting was listened to, to raise the vibration, and intentions were written, and then burned, I am moved to (told to) include in this writing, some additional words.

To him, I offer my thanks for finally giving me the push to get, and stay away. To her, that is now with him, I thank her for her actions, which further aided me in staying away. I’d say I wish that I’d done sooner, but, I wouldn’t be here now, and here is where I want to be so, I guess it’s all perfect. To him I also say, I forgive you. I have released all anger I had toward you, and her. Go with God, or whatever/whomever you want.

To anyone I may have hurt in the past, I sincerely ask your forgiveness. To anyone I may unintentionally hurt in the future, for your forgiveness I also ask. And to you, I also send love, and wishes for everything beautiful.

To the most amazing extra-terrestrial unicorn, with whom I have traveled the ages, (or with whom I am currently sharing life, in times which parallel the one we know currently as our reality), I give endless thanks for space-holding, given, and accepted, for always, always seeing me, hearing me, encouraging me, trusting me, and for the brilliant words, wisdom, laughter, tears, and moments of magick of all sorts, shared. You are remarkable. And I send love enough to span oceans, and time.

And to my daughters, the most beautiful, amazing creatures, for your forgiveness I also ask, for anything I have done, or not done, which may have hurt you, in any way. You are that of which I will always be the most proud. I am every single day amazed by your strength, your resilience, your intelligence, your humor, your kindness, your beauty in every sense of the word. It is my profound pleasure to watch you both, in your own ways, find your wings, and fly. I love you beyond measure. Never forget, you can do, and be, anything you wish!!!

 

Listening to: The sound of silence. Not Simon and Garfunkel. The literal sound, of silence.