Sitting with Sadness

Sadness breaches the glassy stillness
like a humpback who has been traveling
for miles without a breath

again, you return
or is it only more
from where the last tsunami
came?

from a different epicenter, perhaps
or maybe the same
does it matter?
it all seems to wear the same coat
of desperation, of pain that is indescribable
because of its depth and
lack of physicality

"I don't know how you do it" he says
in reference to the needles and the burning
and the ropes and the beatings
that I mention, I request, I crave.
I said I didn't know either
but on second thought, of course I do.

Where emotional pain can be made physical
there is relief in the knowledge
that all things physical can and will pass.
There is a palpable
beginning
middle
end

Not the continuous breaching
of drowning whales.

There is grace in trusting the process of
emrging emotional pain into the physical.
Grace in trusting another with your body, your process, your pain.
Grace in trusting enough to be held, and
Grace in recollecting yourself when the container gives in under the pressure.
We are all only human, after all,
and some of us push harder than others.
Some of us go deeper than others.
Some of us expand greater than others.
Some of us are too loud, even for our own comfort.

It is grace that can hold us.
It is the ocean and the sky that can take it
that can hold us all.

Sadness enjoys the writing. It is learning to paint with words.
It is learning to leak gently out in small manageable breaths.

So on the surface, I may seem sadder longer.
But perhaps this time, you won't be frightened off by the explosion,
cowering in your own fears of inadequacy,
thinking "Shit, I can't hold THAT!"
Instead you can be quietly concerned in your own spare time,
stroking your ego into thinking that you may have something to offer.

Just to let you know,
I will take what is useful.
I take care of my own.

I trust myself.
I trust my process.
I trust that the label of "Crazy" exists for your benefit, not mine,
to make you comfortable and separate from what you long to ignore...

...but more on that, later.

Labeling makes Sadness even sadder.
It shows Sadness unacceptance.
It shows Sadness that you acknowledge her
as something incomprehensible, unacceptable, wild.
Boo on labeling, especially the label of Crazy.

Ouchness.

Sadness, what else would you like to share with the world?
Yikes, fear? Brokenheartedness? I am so gentle and fierce
I am so many dualities, all crossing in the center.
I am seeking integration between grief and love.
I am confused, getting tripped up in the process,
when I stumble, and hit the ground, I cry out of frustration.
Seeking flow and grace and a peaceful heart.
I pray, I stand up, I keep moving.

My life is full
of processing.
The large, complicated doughnut that I am.

Please don't fret, Mom.
Please. Have faith in me and my process.
Sadness is not a death sentence, like it seemed to be a decade ago.
You have raised such a strong, committed, loving daughter.
I may do things with my life that you would never imagine or wish for me,
but it is mine to live, and I follow only the voice of Spirit
and our ancestors.

Sadness mingles with Love and Grace on occasion,
when she is well enough to receive visitors.
They share a laugh and a good cup of tea,
in light and peaceful laziness.

It is 11:11. Think happy thoughts.

Stuff I Write That Could Be Called ... Poetry

Here's some of my new favorites that I've written recently:

10.21.07

Leave of myself
only beauty
only time will leak
it out of me
only the presence
of others
will that beauty be seen
and heard
and felt

Right now my presence is with
ache
and disgust
and malice
and ill thought

the knives of destruction
all pointing at me
their blades like starving
glistening teeth of
hungry wolverine demons
I grit my teeth
bound to my own resolve
I know this too shall pass
along with the slapping self knowledge
that I did this to myself

Perhaps I will remember next time the hedonist is tempted
Perhaps I will be stronger next time
or more centered
or more prepared
or more forgiving

Perhaps I will no longer echo the legacy of
not being enough
and instead
submit to love.

The flash of the knife quickly snaps me back to present
As the demons swirl and dance around me
drawing nearer
They are already inside
rallied awake by wine
and cheesecake
One of them licks my neck
tasting, admiring, yearning
and I give in
a whore to the archetype of the boundary-less victim

Bind me, drag your blade down my thigh
force my legs open wide
open
I am open
and cannot reach out for the security of your embrace
only the ropes will hold me

Silently
secretly
even to myself
I beg the blade deeper
for the tip to disappear underneath dermis
underneath layers of self loathing, but oh!
how deep the knife must go
to find that layer.

And I think of words like "Never" and "When"
and "Will I ever"
as the hateful blackness wraps its arms around me
holding me warmly to its breast
smelling of all of the comforts of
Home.

Rivers of woe pour down my chest
my body getting off on self loathing
Where is the flipswitch, the reset button,
I wonder.

I shovel pills into my mouth
Liver Enzymes
B Vitamins
in hopes of a better day
tomorrow

Nothing has changed much in ten years
still a pill for every problem
A lot has changed, though
Process of progress is simply shrouded now in darkness

I know it is there
waiting for my return
from my kinky bondage trip with self loathing
drugged by food and indulgence,
led on by sadness and dodging self care
pushing and pushing and pushing past the mirror
which has had nothing lovely to say as of late.

I long to love myself.

I am building this concept from scratch
I got some chicken wire
and a few branches off of an apple tree
a few squash seeds
and some straw bales
left over from haunted trails
a tea light
and a teddy bear
some no VOC paint
and a safety flare
a blanket I crocheted myself

and a mirror
that I'd rather break
Thirteen years bad luck is the least of my concern.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

11.7.07

Congestion

My question
to you is this:

Have you any purpose
other than to reintroduce myself
to the physical boundaires of
my self?

My feet long for wet cold river stones
sharp pressing into my soles
stoicly absorbing
Congestion

making space for movement

Go slow now. Keep yourself.
Together with stillness and
silence, movement occurs.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

November 2007



What if

I wasn't needed

yet still adored?



What if

I wasn't adored

yet still missed?



What if

I wasn't missed

yet still remembered fondly?



Where do the butterflies go

when the flowers are gone

when the winter rains

soak the roots

and rot sinks in?

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

11.18.07

For all those sobbing empathics
and those stone-faced indwellers;

I've got a news flash.

It's okay to cry.
A lot.
Whenever you need to.
In whatever way feels safest.

You will not die from crying.

You will not melt.

You will not offend
Me.

It's okay to cry for seemingly no reason
for there is always reason a reasonable mind can't fathom

It's okay to misunderstand youself on a regular basis.

It's okay to grieve the loss of family
even as they surround you
gazing at you
glazing their view
making up facts and associations
to hang on you like the corpse of a Christmas tree
don't forget: you still have a heartbeat
and must make room to
breathe.

Sometimes it is you grieving for them
so that they may remain blissfully ignorant
of their pain.

You get to choose what you grieve, you know.

Some things are worth crying for.

For example: Did you ever know how bad I wanted a dad?
Tall and strong
in mind and heart and soul and arms?
who gives solid hugs with his heart
and listens with consideration
and asks questions about me
and laughs from his belly
and ruffles my hair when he calls me kiddo
who is confidently authentically honest

what a tall bill for someone to fill

I can expect things from other people
all I want
but should I put my heart into it?

She still has a few cracks and crevices
left over from the last time she fell
and broke into a million pieces

There is still peace missing
There are still pieces missing
perhaps they fell under the bed
or rolled away under the dresser
It's all I can do to hold her together
sometimes

she'd love to have her expectations met
she'd love to be loved and to love again
she'd love to be cradled and held and heard and adored and
swung around in circles
by her arms
by her dad
who is laughing
from his belly with her
out loud

It's okay to cry
to grieve the imaginings of a memory.

So if you start to get teary
in front of your family
who has mistaken you for
the Christmas tree
or a piece of furniture

Tell them you're taking care of business
Tell them you're takng care of them
and that there's only so much longer
that this will take place
Tell them they should start taking notes
on grieving
on what it is that you're doing
for them
So they'll have a clue of what to do
when you take off
the ornaments and the tinsel and the lights
and give them back
their grief.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

12.17.07

Penmanship
is another form of

PROPER APPROPRIATE COMPLETED BOXES

that I have been known to cut myself upon

bleeding into myself, I reclaim my blood,
marvel at the open wounds, lick them and step
forward

only by the grace of Spirit
in the form of a friend in a coyote mask
raven feathers dangling, smoking sage burning
melting sharp edges into
gentle streams of soothing laughter
tumbling along with the flow of the rattle

PALPABLE PEACEFUL CONNECTION

This is real, and unbelievable
because if I were to believe that this kind of "real"
were truly my life
my heart would surely break wide open from
inexplicable and tremendous joy

Could I dare to go there again?
I must.
If I wish to live, I must.

It is within the flow of community and connection
that I wish to live
So go there I must.
Armed with courage and faith and trust
that sometimes a broken heart can be a welcomed event.

A broken heart
A heart broken
wide open
by love
can be taught to receive love again
in that moment.

Mirrors for eyes
courage like a tree trunk
with roots in the heart
with branches in the arms
with leaves in the mouth

FLOW IS SOLID

Impenetrably gentle.

Thank you teacher.
Thank you friend.

Spirit Talk

...so I was outside for a nightly smoke, wondering which season of "House" to plug in and watch for the evening, when a westerly spirit came to visit. Her advice tonight was to write instead.

So I give this session up to that spirit, and Spirit in general, starting......now:

Great winds of the West, bringing rain
bringing comfort
bringing clarity
and cleansing

what do we have here?
what do we as humans, have here
here, now, in this moment
in this rain?

we have drops on asphalt
we have a damp chill
that brings us into our bodies
that we draw into our lungs and our heart
that we may be reminded
of our one true precious gift
of breath
of life

the maple stands strong to the north of me
how many raindrops has she felt?
as many wild thoughts as I have felt?
as many deep impressions as we have collected
like the spiky seedlings scattered from her
with the wind?

asking questions
does more
than
answering them
sometimes

i ache
as I break
away
from
old expectations
and resurface
only to find
more
there

is it unrealistic
to expect
lack of expectation?

inside
warmth
and uneasiness
the usual state of
disarray
that I keep
in defiance
of the box of order

I keep
with me
only light
and memory
they complement one another
one would not be without the other

my heart speaks
in multiple tongues
simultaneously
harmonizing
as one
and yet
the message
is mangled
sometimes
the message
is unclear
sometimes
the thought
interferes with such gusto
as if it's life depended on
interfering
referee-ing
juggling
the wild thoughts
the deep impressions

like my mother
standing in the doorway
witness to my anguish
unknowing
perhaps helpless
perhaps voiceless
longing to make things right
for me
when things were right
for me
all along

I signed up for this
as did you
I signed up for the experience
of helplessness
of anguish
of wild thoughts and deep impressions
knotted up with
the passion
to make things right

undo the knots
sink deeper
beyond wild thoughts
past deep impressions
into this body
into this life
it is our one precious gift
to breathe
into this body