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?

{listen to the song while reading, pretty please}

Allie Moss – Corner
http://www.peacelovefree.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/Allie-Moss-Corner2.mp3.

~~~

Hey you.

Yes, you.

You have been so brave. So strong.  So resolved. You have been standing your ground for months now and you are so very tired.

You give everything to others and you are depleted.  Your profound generosity is one of the truest things in the universe, but such things do not come without cost.

You have endured a loss so profound that your world has stopped spinning.  You ache from the weight of carrying around the giant hole in your heart.  So few people understand that emptiness can be so very heavy.

You have such an exquisitely beautiful heart.  You experience life so deeply that it becomes overwhelming. You ache because you cannot take it all in, and you ache because you cannot possibly make it all better.

You are under tremendous pressure. So much is riding on what you are doing every day.  You carry the weight of this on your shoulders and in your heart, and it is breaking your spirit.

You have witnessed things that no eyes should see.  You have heard words that nobody should have to hear.  Your soul is tender and wounded.  You struggle to maintain your faith in the basic goodness of humanity.

You are confused, in a state of turmoil.  You feel alone. There are a million paths in front of you and you have no idea which one to take.  All you want to do is run away.

You are a warrior woman.  Fierce.  Awe-inspiring.  Full of courage.  You are surrounded by many who look to you for inspiration.  But there are moments where you are brought to your knees by doubt, when you question how you can possibly go on, when the fight seems too vast for one person.

You have been attacked. Your security has been breached. The center of your existence has been threatened, and that which defines you is in jeopardy.   You pour your heart and soul into protection, but you know that in the end it is all beyond your control.

You are cracked and broken, brilliant and growing, flawed and humble, triumphant and bold, completely at peace and embroiled in struggle.

You are human.  I am too.

So come here.  Take my hand.   Sit with me in this safe corner.  We’ll make a cozy fort with blankets, just like we did when we were kids.   We’ll use these handmade quilts from my grandmother because they’ve already got love sewn right into them, and right now we need all the love we can get.  Well just pull these old patchwork quilts around us and snuggle into our cocoon. We’ll get through this together, you and I.

Hold my hand.  Lay your head on my shoulder and I’ll lean close and we’ll surround each other in waves of the purest love. We’ll tell each other our secrets, give voice to our fears, dive into the darkness and the light together. Take a deep breath now with me, and exhale everything you’ve been holding inside.  Let it all go now, every little bit of it.  It’s not just yours to hold anymore.  You are not alone now.  You never really were.

There are times to stand up and fight, to be strong and brave and mighty.  And you have done that so well.  Now is the time to lay it all down and surrender.   This is the time to take refuge, to rebuild your reserves, to feed your heart and mind and soul.  To remember how beautiful you are, how sacred, how precious in every possible way.

Have faith that others will pick up what you have put down, even if just for a little while.  Know that you must do this, that space and time and healing love are just as important as struggling forward and gaining ground.  Feel the tremendous love pouring toward you from all corners of the universe.  Accept that all will be revealed in time.  Know that you are the most perfect, most beautiful, most inspiring person I have ever known.

You are safe here. You are home now.  You can rest.

The room is too fucking cold.  It always is.  I forgot to bring my sweater and I’m shivering as the air conditioning blasts away.  The instructor is in front of the class,  droning on and on in words I don’t understand.  I struggle to be attentive but my mind wanders.  My fingers are itching to write on the yellow legal pad in front of me, to dive into the words swirling through my brain and make them into something real.

Why am I here?

I feel panic bubbling up inside.  I can’t breathe.  I don’t belong here; don’t want to learn about programming algorithms and logical coding structure.   I’m the only female in a room of guys who have been tinkering with computers for years.  They are all eager, excited to learn enough to finally unleash their inner Bill Gates on the world. I am terrified, searching everywhere for an escape route and finding none, so ridiculously out of place that I hear a refrain bubbling up from my subconscious, and I stifle a laugh.

“one of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn’t belong…”

I’m accustomed to feeling intelligent, but here I feel like everyone is fluent in a language I’ve never before encountered.  All the rest seem well versed in the dialect of DOWHILE and ENDIF and PSEUDOCODE.  I am missing the part of my brain necessary for making sense of all this.  I don’t WANT to make sense of all this.  My brain feels like the human equivalent of the blue screen of death that keeps appearing on my failing laptop.  I am caught in an infinite loop of confusion and self pity, about to freeze up and shut down.

i just want to make pretty things.

It becomes part mantra, part plea – a desperate cycling through my brain in hopes the universe hears.  Please, not this. I just want to make pretty things.

~~~

It took me a long time to call myself an artist.  It takes audacity to hold up a word like that and claim it for myself.  It is a big, bold, brilliant, terrifying thing.   I am an artist. I play with light, bend words to suit, gather inspiration and beauty and scatter it in circles that are ever widening as I learn to step into myself.

I make pretty things. It is what I am here to do.  It is what makes me feel alive. It’s not about the  medium or the money, it’s about letting the universe flow through me, accepting what I’m given and letting it become what it will. I am so solid and sure of myself, of my path. This is who I am.  I  create – words or images or communities of people – and it’s as necessary as breathing. I must  do this.

This future I’m now staring down –  long days in a cubical somewhere, staring at a characters on a computer screen and trying to force them to do my bidding  - this feels like a direct betrayal of the work I have been put here to do, a slow death of spirit and purpose.  I know what my work is, with a clarity that people yearn for their whole life.  I know it, and I cannot embrace it.  I turn quickly from desperation into a petulant, foot stomping child.

I don’t wanna do it! I don’t wanna do it! I don’t wanna do it!

So my rebellious teenage self steps in, all cocky attitude and larger than life bravado – chain smoking and punked out – way too cool to be owned by anyone’s expectations.

Fuck it.  Don’t get worked up.  Just don’t do it.  They can’t make you.  Go underground.  Be an illegal alien.  Don’t waste your time with this messed up system. This is stupid.  Nana-nanana…They can’t catch you!  Just sit  there and put your hands over your ears, ignore the bullshit and make your stuff.

But I’m full of self-pity, an egocentric puddle of woe and the worst part is that I did this.  Nobody set this in motion but me, and what is there to do but follow it through?  The sense of resistance I have is incredible.  I’m digging in my heels hard but being dragged along in spite of myself.   The logistics of this situation leave me with few options.  I am stuck in a trap of my own making. I’m gearing up for ginormous temper tantrum followed by limb flailing meltdown of epic proportions.  I’m almost daring the universe to send me to my room for an indefinite time out.

Out of nowhere another voice fills my head, and she’s irritated.  She hauls me up off the floor and drops me roughly on my chair for as stern talking to (with a healthy dose of ridicule thrown in for good measure).

So, you’ve got to go to school to learn to do something you don’t want to do?  Oh, poor, poor little baby.  You know what, lots of people go to work every single day to do jobs they hate and they make the best of it.  That’s life.  There are bills to pay and kids to feed and this is just reality so SUCK. IT. UP. SISTAH.  Oh, for gods sake quit that sniveling – it’s pathetic.

And I know she’s right, damn it, but I don’t want to hear it.  I want someone to understand why this feels so fucking terrible. I want someone to hold my hand and stroke my hair and tell me that it will all be okay.

please, just tell me it will all be okay…

I’ve fallen off my imaginary time out chair and I’m curled in a ball on the floor now, an oozing, snotty, crying mess – wondering how to pull it together before people notice.

My gently pragmatic self steps in, sits down next to me on the floor and lifts my chin.  She’s all Mary Poppins with her spoon full of sugar and spit-spot snap of her fingers making everything tidy again.

You’ll make the best of it dearie.  You’ll do what you have to do and it won’t be forever.  You never know, you might even like it.  Come on, pick yourself up.  You’re a strong one, remember.  You can do this.  You have to do this, so there is no sense in crying about it.  Chin up love, chin up.

And I know all those voices are a part of me, and they all have a point.  But the only one who speaks in first person is the artist, the one whose soul burns with the fire of creativity.

The one who makes pretty things.

~~~

Class is ending and I’m gathering my things together to walk out.  For three hours I’ve sat here so deep in my head that I have no idea what was said.  No matter that I’ve turned this around in my head a million times already, I’m still searching for a way out.  I get into the car and turn on my iPod, looking for answers the music.  I take a deep breath  put the car in drive and head home, because sometimes, there’s nothing to do but keep moving forward, taking the next logical step, and having faith that it will all work out in the end.

I am exactly where I need to be.  I need to be exactly where I am. I am a blessing manifest.

~~~

I”m gonna go home and make some pretty things.

__________________________________________________

Teasing apart those messages in my head, giving them separate voice and personality and working to understand the role each plays came as a result of an exercise with life coach extraordinaire Jenn Lee of Artizen Coaching.  One of my fall goals is to manifest the ability to afford further sessions – I can’t say enough about how powerful the little bit I got to experience really was.

Tossing and turning in bed at night.  I’m keeping her awake again, I know.  She always sleeps easy, slips into dreamland with the ease of someone who has finished her days work and is satisfied by it.

In the middle of a sentence sometimes, her breathing changes and I know she’s almost gone.  Just like that.

Not me.  The dark and stillness makes my brain come alive.  It is then – when all the activity has finally ceased and the house settles into its quiet nighttime rhythm – that the artist inside finally wakes up.

~~~

Are you having trouble falling asleep baby?

I can’t sleep yet, I’m writing in my head.

You need to stop that and rest. You’re exhausted.

I can’t stop the writing.  I can’t.  It just is.

~~~

Sometimes I envy it, that letting it all go accessible to those not possessed by the ceaseless drive to create.  But then I wonder, would I really want that?

Yes, my brain and heart have an inconvenient tendency to spin in endless loops at 2am, stringing words together into something beautiful, imagining an image not yet created, conceiving of some incredible community or action or change.  But those middle of the night loops are connected in some fundamental way to the depths of my spirit, to who I am as a person and to why I am here on this earth.

It is those moments, curled up in the chair in the corner, scribbling lines upon lines in my journal by the light of the moon, that I am the most fully alive.  And when that happens, I feel sad for all the people who just sleep.

~~~

Where are you going?

It’s okay.  Go back to sleep.  I have to write.

I was cranky this morning.  On edge.  Hell…over the edge.  We overslept, the kids didn’t want what little food we had left, Bella had forgotten to do part of her homework and couldn’t remember if she had PE.  Bella was whining for a hot lunch, Julie was crying because she wanted to bring her lunch.  I didn’t have time to deal with anyone’s lunch. I still couldn’t find my damn missing cell phone.  Everyone was testy and uptight and the only thing to do was to breathe deep and push through the morning.

Even after I dropped them off I could feel my tension; that shallow breath, tight muscle, storm cloud hovering anxiety that can so easily take over the day.

And then as I was driving home I heard the opening bars of the song. And a little smile crossed my face.  I felt the beating of my heart change.  I took a breath, turned up the volume….

Okay, so it’s overplayed and slightly cheesy.  Yes, it’s a mindless, formulaic top 40’s dance tune with no deep meaning.  So what.  There’s something about this song that makes me feel good.  Something about this song at that moment changed my mood in an instant, changed the entire tone of the day I was facing.  That’s the power of music.

Now if you’ll forgive me, I’m going to stop typing and have a little one woman dance party…and I’ve got a feeling I’m  going to have a really damn good day.