Words Might Be Less But Not Dissapear

The wind is changing.  I can feel her, Fall, on her way.  Even though I have chills upon my arms, it warms me to know that a new season is romancing us.  I'm unsure what this means for me, or my words here.

Some of you know that I'm also Heather.  The name that I was born with.  I have a family and I write online for them too.  I'm also the photographer and artist behind Chaotic Beauty Photography. 

I've been on a journey.  I've needed this space for many reasons.  It's safe.  A hiding place of sorts from the negativity that came with some hearing my words.  With my husband's help, I'm making steps back.  He has asked that I start writing more of my words on our family site since it's part of our family journey.  This scares me.  And excites me.

All this to say..

I need my tribe.  You.  Words might be less here.  But they wont disappear.  I love you all and treasure your comments and support.

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. :)