{this life right now, it leaves me little time to do more than scrawl illegible lines in my journal, or fragments of thoughts on grocery receipts.  there are words branding the deepest reaches of my soul – but this is a time for diving,  not for surfacing.  and so, i find myself reaching to the past.  to stories already released and truths already recorded.  and I absorb them anew, and remember things I’ve already learned }

breath. life. hope 12.23.07

there is much to
learn
and so far to go

and so I am steping
boldly
into this new life

boldy, yes
but not without fear
and certianly not
without grief

and there is pain

yes, there is pain
and there are days
when I am consumed by loss
and I want to pull the covers
of life
around my head
and sit in darkness
with my demons
instead of trying to escape
the knowledge
of what precious life
I have relenquished
to the wild ether

but there is hope
there must always be
hope
and there are days
when I spiral on hope
spiral to infinity and back again
with my breath
or her touch
or your words
or the sound of the raindrops hitting my window
as if life just goes on
or because life just goes on

And so I take a breath
and I breathe again
and again and again
filling my lungs and heart and soul
with hope
because my life depends on it

because the center
of life,
mine and yours,
is always breath

and each day I choose
to unwrap my battered
heart
one more time
and one more time again
and to hold it out
palms upturned
and I make a fragile offering
of my heart to the world.

and so I stand
as naked as I have ever
been
with my breath
and my heart
and my grief
and my loss
and my fear
and my pain
and my hope

and with myself

with so much less
but possibly so much more
than before

and I remind myself to take
just one step
and to breathe just one breath

and I think that maybe
just maybe

I can do this.

We were in Julie’s room one night, my eldest daughter and I.  I wanted to show her how the canvas painting she had carefully labored over for Julie’s Christmas gift was framed and hung on the wall.

I said, gazing at her masterpiece with no small amount of motherly pride, “Now it looks like a real work of art”.

Bella looked at my quizzically, wondering yet again how her mother could possibly understand so little about the world.

“Mama, every time you make something, or draw something, or paint something, it is already real art. There is no such thing as art that is not real”

And so I said that she was right, and didn’t it look nice, and once again, daughter became guru and mother became willing student.

Which is, I sometimes think, the way it was meant to be.

~~~~~~

{art is always real. all of it.  even the stuff you don’t understand.  even the stuff you don’t like.  even the stuff that you made that you would be embarrassed to show your best friend}

that photo that you took when you first got your DSLR, when you captured her spirit perfectly but the focus landed on her shoulder?    still art.

the painting you did last year the first time you picked up a brush, the one your mentor critqued to death?  it’s art.

the story you are holding in your heart and so desperately want to tell the world?  definitely art.

the scarf you knit for your son with the funky messed up rows?  art. art. art.

the poem scrawled on your dry cleaning receipt at the red light.

the dress you want to sew. the song you want to sing.

the clay you’ve not yet molded.

everything you have made

or will one day make

{it’s all real, every last bit.   because there is no such thing as art that is not real. bella said so}

I don’t believe in
-forever-
not the version I was sold
perfect and pretty and
tied with a bow
placed (by request)
on a pedestal
to keep itself
safe

My forever is fleeting and
flawed and humble in its
inherent lack of
promise
it’s not easily subdued
nor naive enough
to imagine itself attached to a guarantee

this forever is
raw and rough and vulnerable
as comfortable with endings
as beginnings
and it cries as often as it laughs
because it knows that wisdom is found in
depths as well as heights
and that being utterly broken is necessary
to if one wishes to be built
anew

it claims no rings, or vows or flowery promises
no ties that bind it to
some external validation
it sings it’s own song
and dances when it wants to
because it grew tired of seeking approval
or grasping at eternity

and so my forever let go
of itself
of everything
it was taught
because those truths no longer served
and it opened itself to interpretation
and it got comfortable with uncertainty
and it decided to just chill

so my forever is right now
as long (and as short) as
this moment
and this one
perfectly sweet
painfully broken
stretching out endlessly
yet ending with each exhale

it has no
dictionary definition
no civil responsibility
no nod of approval
and it revels in contradiction
and wants nothing to do with
blind faith
but you’d better believe
that acceptance (while not mandatory)
makes it all flow
so much easier

it just is
what it is
and damn if there’s not
a whole lot of power
in that.



I’m not nearly as strong as you.  I can’t leave.

Oh darling.  My sweet, wonderful, intensely brave darling.  Sit down with me here, cross legged, face to face. Take a deep breath.  I want to lift your chin and look deep into your eyes and tell you some things.

It is not the leaving that makes you strong.  Endings do not mark you as brave.  Courage does not only lie in being the one who initiates destruction.

Yes, all of those things require strength.   And oh, if you have ever been the one to leave, or end or destruct, I want to cradle you in my arms and tell you I know your pain.  But the other choices- when the only thing to mark the difference between before and after is your own quiet resolve – those also require strength beyond comprehension.

We are all on a path.   Day by day we decide if we’ll follow that path, or forage a new one.  Sometimes the choices are not clear, and everything seems twisted and painful.  But moment by moment we choose, because we have to.  That’s how life goes.  The big bold stuff gets the attention.  The tearing down, the crashing and banging and wailing and starting anew.  And we all say ‘Isn’t she brave?  Isn’t she strong?  Isn’t she courageous?’

And she is.  Of course she is.  But you are too.

Oh how strong and brave and courageous you are.

Sometimes stillness takes far more strength than movement.  There are times when choosing to stay requires a level of fierce tenacity you wouldn’t need if you decided to leave.  Boldness does not always declare itself to the world and demand attention, but rather lives steady and small in the spaces we choose to continue inhabiting, even though we are called elsewhere.

There is no shame, no lack of strength inherent in your decision.  To rebuild instead of tearing down.  To recognize that perfection is not always found in novelty, and that all the answers lie within, not without.  To know that what you have is precious, and to not be willing to risk it.  To look it all in the eye and say “I choose this.  Not what might be, but what I have now”.   This is nothing to ever be ashamed of.  It is not the lesser choice.

It is not weak.  It is not cowardly.  It is not less authentic.  No less worthy of respect and admiration than my choice, or her choice or their choices.    We often measure our choices with words like good and bad, right and wrong, strong and weak.  And they are all of those things, and none of those things.  They just are.

No matter which road we choose, it will always require a profound and audacious level of guts.  It will be a testament to our spirit and our faith, and it will push us to our edges and pull us to our center.  It will be the embodiment of love and heart and soul and inspiring commitment.   And it will be brave, and strong and true.

Because living is courageous.  Every single moment of it.

{on my desk sits a black fabric journal.  it is a plain, ordinary, nondescript book. from the outside, it looks as if it could not possibly hold anything important.  only I know that it holds the most valuable thing I possess. my story.}

5.22.09

I’m in birthday party hell.

I’m standing in the middle of Dave and Busters (which, for those who are not familiar, is like Chuck E Cheese on steroids).  The bright flashing lights and the incessant beeping and buzzing have brought me to a level of overstimulation that mimics a really trippy high.  All around me I see glass-eyed parents and kids, feeding tokens into games, fixated on collecting long snakes of tickets to trade in for any number of crappy plastic toys or candy.  It’s like the very worst of Vegas, ripe for a membership drive for a future meeting of gamblers anonymous.

And in the midst of one of those spectacularly surreal ‘this is my life?’ moments, when Julie is deliberating between multiple versions of Hannah Montana flashlight key chains and Bella tries to stretch her points as far as they can possibly stretch (consumer culture microcosm anyone?) my cell phone buzzes in my pocket. And then buzzes again, and again, and again.

I pull it out and I see four texts from Mani.  My first thoughts it that something is wrong, but then I open my phone and all the flashing and buzzing and chaos fades away as I read:

I had the sudden urge to tell you I love you
no matter what and for always
and to take you on a boat,
sailing toward the horizon
until we couldn’t see the shore
and have you look around
at the endless expanse of sparking sea,
and realize that it belonged to you.
every last drop.
and I wanted to let you in on my secret,
because I know we can breathe underwater.
because it is time you realized
that you will never drown.
we don’t drown. we adapt.
we don’t get swept away.
we drift, we ride current, we grow gills, we grow wings.

And in the moment that I absorbed those words I let that exquisite act of kindness wash over me. I let her love and compassion and wisdom soak into me in waves of bliss and I had an experience of momentary but utterly perfect serenity.

It is not just that she wrote those words (for I know her to be a woman who experiences her existence in poem), nor the fact that she would hold flawed, messed up little me with such utter tenderness (for even can occasionally accept that I am worthy of such emotion).  No – it was none of those things that evoked such reverence.  What matters is that she took those thoughts, those feelings, those words, the cadence of that poem and she sent it spinning out into the universe directly to me and placed it in my heart like the most precious treasure.

And I can’t help but wonder – what if every time I thought of someone with tenderness and compassion or gratitude, I took the next step and gifted them with that in the purest form possible?  What if we sent our love spinning out into the universe more often?  Once every day.  Ten times.  Twenty.  One hundred.  What if we did it and shared it and then others followed suit?

What if we gave it just one day, and every time we thought of someone with love – even if it’s not someone with whom we normally interact – we took the time to let them know? If every time we were inspired by a line on a blog we took a moment to make a few extra mouse clicks and leave a comment?  If every time someone opened the door for us we looked them right in the eye, connected ourselves to them through our shared humanity and not only said thank you, but meant it and felt it with every part of our being.

Mani could have had those thoughts tonight in the midst of caring for her girls or studying for her midwifery exam or a million other things that fill her life to overflowing and pushed them away as nothing more than thoughts.  But she didn’t, she held on to them and gave them shape and sent them to me on a crazy night in the middle of a crazy week filled with guilt and blame and self-recrimination and bitchy, snappy base level parenting and stress in a ball that pounds in my chest.  She gave them to me, and she didn’t just change things for me, she changed things for everyone I will come in contact with tomorrow.  And the next day.  And the next.

Because if she can hold me in such tenderness and I can allow myself to be held, I feel certain that I can extend that outward in all directions.

And really, that’s all that needs to happen to change the world. `

Haiti.

Most of us were blessedly untouched by the earthquake, at least physically. In every real way, our lives continue on as usual. But in the days and weeks following this disaster, we’ve all been shaken by the images and stories and heartache that have traveled back to us. We sat in horror trying to take in the magnitude of the damage, we cried for the loss, we texted the Red Cross with our donations. At some point during it all we felt totally, utterly and completely helpless.

In the face of such devastation, we are reminded of just how small we are. We feel inadequate to the task at hand. How could we possibly make any sort of real difference when the reality of today is unfathomable, and the road ahead holds challenges beyond our comprehension? What small gifts could we offer that would make any real difference?

We forget in those moments, that real difference is made moment by moment, dollar by dollar, person by person. We don’t need a zillion dollars in the bank account. It’s okay that we can’t hop down there to rebuild the country brick by brick. All we need is our hearts, and our talents, and people with vision to bring it all together.

To Haiti with Love is an online auction of art, photography, papercrafts, clothing, and creative goods. All proceeds will go direct to the St. Joseph’s Family of homes for children in Haiti. This weeklong fundraising event is curated and managed by visual artist René Joshi Sims of fruityfantastica and author Kate Inglis of sweet | salty.

Go and see what magic these two have pulled together; beautiful artwork, and books and gifts from profoundly talented individuals. Remember to look beyond the items themselves, and know that every single one of those postings is really just about love, about heart, and about a belief that we all have it within us to make a difference. The magic of what Kate and Rene have really created is the way they have nurtured this reality for all of us. Our contributions matter. Our offerings change the world.

My donation, ‘being exquisite’ -an 11×14 print from my series of desert images – is both small and humbly offered. It, on its own, won’t bring in a million dollars, rebuild a school, or change the course of Haiti’s future. But I am mistaken if I believe it is inadequate or meaningless.

All things done in the spirit of hope are bursting with meaning and potential.

{So go, peruse the offerings and bid on something that catches your fancy. Change the world today, the way only you can.}

I am blessed to be surrounded by artists and dreamers, in life and online.   I hear – in our whispers, conversations, songs, and dreams the same yearnings, the same daring, the same questioning of our worth and purpose and direction .

I think this video will speak to many of you, as it did to me.

The window looks out over a thicket of woods, right where the yard drops off steeply into an impenetrable tangle of trees and brush.  If you lie in this room and you close your eyes, it is the crashing of waves, and the croaking of frogs and the rustling of leaves that lull you to sleep.  This bed, ancient iron with flecked paint and sagging mattress, cradled me the night my truth began to travel home to me.  There is peace living in the walls of this space.  Peace and simplicity, whispering a reminder of how much I have, and how little I need.

The creative drive.  ‘Tis life force and relentless demon in equal measure.    We artistic misfits cram ourselves into a culture is usually centered on new, better, different.  What to create that has not yet created?  What to do that is better than what has already been done?  How to dig deeper, reach farther, deliver more?

Sometimes, though, you hit a wall when nothing new comes.  Your wheels are spinning as fast as your head, yet you don’t manage to move an inch.  You feel tender and exposed and so utterly, deeply vulnerable and alone.

What is there to do but give yourself permission to halt that eternal struggle forward?  Call a creative cease fire.  Take a deep breath, center yourself and to look back on what you have done and where you have been.  Dive deep inside and recall a time when creativity flowed, when you lived in a place of personal power.  The answers to our future – indeed to our present – often lie in the lessons already lived and spaces formerly inhabited.

~~~

i will own it {written and posted here:  08.19.07}

i have spent
far too long
standing in the shadow
of my own
perception.

loathing
lip curling
at my own
reflection

in the mirror
in the store window
in the eyes of
satisfied
lovers

disgust
unmet expectation
endlessly comparing
and rejecting
myself

and now?
and now.

and now I will
own it.

posess it.
revel in every
soft/curvy
hard/angular
perfect/imperfect
inch of it

of me.

for my daughters
for my daughters daughters
for my lovers
for the kind-eyed stranger
behind the counter
at my neighbourhood
coffee bar.
who serves me
the perfect chocolate pastries.

for myself

i will own it.

before
i gave it away
threw it away
discarded it in the clouds of a million smoky bars
and on the floors
of unfamiliar rooms
next to dirty socks
and forgotten paperbacks.

did not want it
could not hold it
choked on the weight
and taste
of it.
i spit it out
with
revulsion.

and now?
and now.

i will hold it high
and touch it softly
and kiss it gently
and give it away freely
but
only to those who
deserve it.

i will be solid in my space
and soft
in my space
i will move
with intention in this space
and I will walk with purpose through
this space

with purpose and truth and
with
direction

i will dismantle
the walls
and tear down
these artificial
boundaries
designed to
protect
but serving to
distance

and i will crack myself
wide
open

open

open

open to experience
to pain
to love
to hurt
to the brilliance
that could be
my life,
that will be
my
life.

i will own my physicality
and I will own
my fluid
sexuality.
and I will look you in the eyes
with clarity
with no apology
or inhibition

for myself

and i will get right
to the
point
no more time
to waste

and I will dance with
passion
and I will live with
acceptance
and I will embrace with
abandon
and I will love

and I will love.

because
I will own it with my walk
and with my
talk
and with my body
language

and everyone will watch
because,

i will own it.

~~~

I look back now, at the woman who had the audacity to write such a manifesto.  And she didn’t just write it and keep it safe on a shelf, where no one would ever know she had the nerve to think such thoughts.   No, not that girl, she declared it to the world.  I remember her, who she was and the space she lived in.

She was bold, that woman.  BOLD in all capital letters, and deliciously fierce with the reality of her existence.

She had to be, to step outside of every expectation and to walk away from both history and future.   She didn’t run from the pain, nor was she bowled over by it, not for long.  No, not her.  She experienced it fully, every last little bit.  Pain, Guilt, Esctasy. Confusion. Joy.  She sat with her reality and allowed all it to integrate itself into the woman she was on the verge of becoming.

She was making choices every day.  Big, scary, life-changing choices. They were not always the right choices, but she accepted that they were hers, and hers alone, to make.  She was breaking walls, breaking boundaries, breaking herself, and within the broken pieces she found what she needed to build herself anew.

She was different than she had ever been, and people noticed.

There was brilliance in those moments, genius even.  Though the time was often harsh and unforgiving, she was riding so high on the intensity of stepping into herself that the air around her buzzed with it.  That woman – who had asked permission for everything that had come before – suddenly ceased looking for validation, and she nearly went dizzy with the freedom of it.  It was the first and only time in her life that she had existed fully from a place of personal power.  Saw it, grabbed it and claimed it for her own.

That woman, she stood solid on the shakiest of ground. She threw her head back, flung her arms wide and proclaimed her heart, her soul, her truth.  And when she said ‘take it or leave it’ she actually meant Bring. It. On. Because deep down, even in the darkest moments, she knew she could handle all that was to come.

~~~

I remember her.  Indeed, I remember her with immediacy and longing.  And because she and I are really one, I know she still exists, but I cannot access her.  Cannot seem to make my way back to inhabiting that space that was the cradle of my own personal power.

When I posted that poem, one of my own dear truth tellers wrote to me:

“and out of the shadows rises this you – the graceful poet who boldly owns her spirit and yet knows when to set it free to dance upon those shadows. And somehow, this is the YOU I’ve always known and loved”

And I wonder, when did I go back to fearing the shadows?  When did I begin asking permission again?  When did I stop owning it?

Because I know that in the answer to those questions I will find the key to my creating.

~~~

Take yourself back to a time where you were fiercely alive, entirely present.  Find something you created then.  Soak it in and if you’re willing share it with me, will you?