A Morning Poem. Building Wings

Every morning 

the world wakes up

all around me

and I watch. 

I sip my coffee

warm in my hands

and listen as the birds sing

their morning songs.

I too have a morning song,

a wild woman 

somewhere deep within me

that sings at the dawn of a new day.

She sings of 

new adventures

new discoveries

and building wings.

Her Death Gave Me Life :: The First Suicide Story

My first experience with death, not the dying or the dead but death, was when I was ten.  I do believe that there is a difference.  One is natural but the other, the grim, is not.  I remember it in detail.

It was the only time I ever saw tears in my fathers eyes.  There was also something else there. In his eyes.  Disappointment, fear, confusion, even now I can't put my finger on it but as a young girl, it puzzled me.

She was my great grandmother.  The one who taught me the importance of letter writing.  The one who tried over and over to convince me that beauty is on the inside, yet she hid behind a wig because she was concerned about what others thought of the thinning silver on her head.  She was the one that said she saw herself in me, 

that I reminded her of herself.  

These words didn't truly sink in until later.  Much later.

It was always a treat whenever she would call and invite my sister and I over for "slumber parties".  We would stay up late into the night playing games, Chinese Checkers was her personal favorite.  I saw something mysterious in her.

Rebellious.  Fun.

Wild.  

She wasn't like most other adults that I knew.  I think that's what drew me to her.  I don't think others noticed this, or wanted to notice it.  I think they ignored it when she couldn't ignore it.  That is, until the day that tears found their eyes.

We weren't allowed to attend the funeral.  They wanted to protect us.  To keep this evil hidden.  Quiet.  But as I'm learning in my own life,

"Bone by bone, hair by hair, Wild Woman comes back.  Through night dreams, through events half understood and half remembered, Wild Woman comes back." ~Women Who Run With The Wolves~

I remembered the gun.  I had often lay next to it under the bed when she sent us off to hide as she counted before searching for us.  In some ways, I think her suicide was a letter to me.  A letter with a secret message to embrace the wild woman.

Her death gave me life.

I wish that it would have been this suicide that started waking me up, but it was his, nineteen years after his great grandmothers, that gave me a voice.

My Voice | A Vlog

Insomnia ~

It's after midnight and once again I'm restless.  Tossing and turning I can't seem to quiet my mind.  I keep thinking about light.

I'm reminded of waking, though not by choice.  I'm trying to figure out what this "wild woman" wants with me that keeps howling at the moon while I'm trying to get some sleep.

Its been one of those days today, when I feel as though I say all the wrong things and want so desperately to wave a wand and make everything all better.  Like. Now.  Life doesn't work that way.  Well, mine doesn't.

I wonder about going back to "normal" and how everyone says it will fix it all.  I don't believe it to be true.  Why?  Because I feel that even though I see so much darkness right now, even though sleep isn't coming and I often feel as though I'm stumbling in the dark.. I ponder waking .. and sleeping and ..

light.  Faint.  light.

~ ~ ~

But I want fireworks.  

I want a bright light that makes everything glow.  I tell my friend Rain that perhaps too much light is blinding, trying to convince myself that this is truth.  That I don't need that bright light.  The words just came out of nowhere as I typed up the comment, and yet, it's as if I was answering my own soul inquiry.  It's not about convincing myself, but it's about remembering meanings, secret messages in everything...  

We had an incident this afternoon with my husband:

He was cleaning his motorcycle this morning and some chemical happened to get blown up into his eyes.  I wasn't out there at the time but when I came walking out, I found him stumbling.  One hand was covering his face and the other was outstretched, searching, for someone.

He moved slowly.  Cautiously.  Yet there was a hunger in his body language.  "Someone help, I need help," he said.

I ran to him, grabbed his one arm as he breathlessly requested water because he couldn't see.  I ran as quickly as I could up the stairs and to the nearest water supply, pulling him along.  I watched with my heart beating wildly as we attempted to clean the liquid out of his eyes and hope that his sight regained.  

It took time.  

His sight was cloudy at first.  

I feel as though my sight is still cloudy, Im "rinsing my eyes out," and just waiting for the cloudy sight to become clear.  

~ ~ ~

I've tried to convince myself over and over again that it needs to be greater, that I need more glow, more rainbow colored filters of which to see it all through.  

if I just forced myself to keep my eyes open without rinsing them, 

it would bring the joy and happiness to my tired weary soul.  

Fake it till you make it, right?

Light twinkles dimly on my incense burning next to me and I know.  I can breathe here.  It feels safe.  It feels right.  So why should I be in such a hurry to leave.  I need to embrace the faint light that dances with the darkness.  I'm before my very own "water source" and the repetitive rinsing is slowly bringing relief.  This path.  Right now, 

I can't take more than a little glow.

Too much light, too many answers would be blinding and scare me back into dark corner where I am so used to hiding.  As long as there is a little glimmer in the distance, as long as our eyes are cloudy and not blind, I believe, we will make it.

After all, there are a tribe of hands pulling us along when we need pain relief.

Notes From Birth | How I Became A Girl

I was supposed to be born a boy.  In a vacuum sealed bag, way up high in a closet lay a baby blanket with blue silk around the edges.  Doggies, Horses and Sailboats.  There were no ultrasounds back then, but she knew.  I think she had hoped it would be true.

When a screaming girl appeared, the photos depicted a "mistake" in her gestures.  I knew this because words were said.  She reminded me of all that I was "supposed" to be.  Many times.  (I like to hope that they knew not what they do.)

My toddler self didn't know what was right and what was wrong.  But I felt that I was wrong.  An ugly duckling in many ways.  I heard tales of women who went to bed with their shirts off... becoming boys when they awoke and so I tried this, hoping that it would work for me

it never did.  

I became the best type of girl-boy that I could.  I wore torn jeans, stuck out my jaw, and chopped my hair to make the sides short.    

I mimicked him.  The daddy that I held so high on a pedestal.  I became the hunter, the fisherman, the quiet girl, who never nagged or filled the house with drama.  I ate the spicy things that he grew in the garden because I was STRONG.  I was tough enough.  I wanted to make him proud.

I wanted to be wanted.

The day that I killed my first deer, a mother, a doe.  He was proud.  It's still the only photo of me that lines his office wall.  It still pains me when I enter.  I don't enter much.  I never went hunting again.  

I also became a girl the day that I killed that deer.  My father drove me to the other boy's house that was quickly gaining my love.  The one that was supposed to be a pastor.  The one that the parents approved of.  

The big work van rolled up and my love came outside as I bragged about my "kill" hoping for his approval.  

He looked confused.  Baffled.

I think he saw right through me.  I think he knew that this was not ME.  The bloody deer that began to smell of death wasn't who was inside this soul.  He tried to smile but his face never lies.  I was crushed.  I had decided that this boy meant more to me than my fathers approval so.  

I decided I needed the boy to approve.  

I didn't know how to be ME so I imitated his mother and his sisters.  I grew my hair out long, burned the baseball caps, put on a dress and took up knitting.  

I wanted to be wanted.

Stay tuned for part two of the story unfolding.

This Is Me: A Grungy Whiteboard

 

Last week I wrote about learning how to trust this thing called my heart/my intuition, it hasn't been easy.  Just today I found myself almost to tears because of a simple question.

What is your favorite color?  I know it sounds trivial but how does one not know what her favorite color is?  A chameleon has many colors.  This has been me.

The chameleon.

Liking this color one minute, calling it my favorite and then in the next, scribbling the whiteboard clean and picking up a new marker.  This is me, the grungy whiteboard with faint scribbles in the background, wiping quickly so that nobody sees the mistakes.

It's messy.

A friend reminds me that it's ok because there are no mistakes. 

 "There are no mistakes or failures, only tender lessons which are opportunities for gratitude ~ because sometimes it takes struggles and do-overs to know ok, this is what happens when I do not follow my soul. That's what it feels like, that's what it sounds like, so I'll know better next time."

So what does this grungy whiteboard tell me?  I may not know my favorite color but there are secrets slowly being revealed..

It whispers that:

~ Tattoo's are my favorite art.

~ Dangly earrings and bandannas make me feel at home in my gypsy soul

~ I'm not a painted nail person.  I've tried.  Different colors.  Just not me.  Love colored toenails!

~ I prefer simplicity.  Layers are not my friend.

~ Jeans and Skirts romance my soul like poetry.

~ Oh and Ariel is my favorite Disney Princess. :)

Embracing Deceitful and Wicked

I remind myself that it's safe here.  This little corner of the universe is a safe place for my heart to open up and bleed upon paper.

And so...  candles are lit and I watch the flame flicker.  I debate touching my fingers in the wax like I used to when my parents weren't looking, because

it was brave.  and bad.

I liked the mask it created upon my fingertips.  I'd peel it off little by little in amazement of the process.

 

I've thought back to that little girl many times lately.  Her actions still hold #secretmessages within them awaiting discovery.  At times, I see her so clearly sitting under a tree, 

hiding.  

She often crossed her fingers, wishing and hoping that nobody would find her because she needed time to reckon with herself.  She tried to convince herself that she wasn't evil for thinking such wild thoughts.  She traced her secrets onto branches.

Somewhere along the way her heart was silenced.  The battle was lost.

"Hearts are deceitful and wicked," they told her.  The Bible says so.  Her heart was the reason she was evil.  The heart couldn't be trusted.

She learned not to trust herself.  She learned to ignore her heart.

She became what they said she should become.  Putting on the costume of "should and shouldn't" she clung to them tightly.  This worked for a while, until fingers got sore.  She couldn't hold on any longer and the only one left to catch the fall once her grip gave way...was me.

The heart she'd tried so hard to ignore.  Now we are left with much un-learning but the outlook is bright.  

Magical

Sometimes I wake up and feel stuck.  Disoriented.  Yet I know that a special power lay at my fingertips.  Unsure what the future holds, there's one unique moment upon waking, when I get to decide.  Oh there's many more throughout the day but this one is distinctive in my life.

One moment when I get to choose how the day will unfold.

Sometimes my health isn't good and I wake up with pain.  On those days, I try to force a smile and embrace the hope that faking it will make it.  Sometimes, I can't do it.  Sometimes I just want to go back to bed, skipping even the coffee.  (And anyone that knows me knows that that is NO SMALL deal).

I throw some clothing on and make it down the stairs.  My yellow composition book is waiting for me on the coffee table, I grab it and head outside to "my spot" at our cafe table and chair set that overlooks a blue morning sky and tribe of trees.

I start with rambles.  "I did not want to get out of bed today," and go on from there.

Sometimes its monotonous and reminds me of the diary that I had as a young child but then other times, when I sit and listen, describing the world around me, it's as if the world speaks back.

Birds sing, squirrels argue and the butterfly comes to say hello.

Who can stay stuck and disoriented when beauty comes to kiss your cheek?  "Today is going to be a magical day," I say out loud.

Right there.  For me, its always right there.  After writing has saved me, I get to decide how my day will turn out.

And I say it will be magical.