It's been a minute. 

I still have things to say.

To feel.

To breathe into.

To be.

...stay tuned?

What If

What if the thoughts are real?

what if the moments of clarity

of me

sitting in the sunlight

streaming across my own space

are truths that I can not live without

and

as I sit

slowly leaching

in another room

with that same sunlight streaming

though not living

still

dreaming

how what then?

how what now?

If I could have that room of my own

that space to be what I want when I want it

to create my experience

as I was created

what then?

it is too big a picture to think about as a whole.

small parts

a glimpse here

a whisper there

while I sit

and drink my tea

contemplating

this 

reality. 

forty-three

I am filled with thoughts

they drift in and out of feelings

swellings

dwellings

and I still sit

waiting for my crumbs.

sitting

still. 

Why?

why.

y.

Jagged Edges

The disconnect between reality and 

the inside and

the outer world

and

then there is me.

standing, usually

somewhere between.

What is real?

How do you know?

How do I know?

When those worlds do not intersect cleanly

and leave their jagged little edges

who is there to turn to 

and remark upon their beautiful shapes

the dancing that the light makes when traveling across them?

and I

still standing

see and absorb

yet

for what?

For whom?

Is it for no one? 

A New Folder: Therapy

I thought a lot about therapy these last few months/years.

It is hard to go into a person’s space and try and explain what it is like for me to live in my own space which is not my own yet one that this society makes is believe is my/our own

yet not to label people by what they look like

even if they are what they look like

and not to trust our judgments

yet to trust our judgements

and to make our own decisions

and our own thoughts about life

when the thoughts we have are fleeting strings disattached from reality

and we can string together anything.

how does one do this life thing?

I had it all figured out so young

and then I had to fit into this world

and I had to comply with its rules in order to not stand so far out

and be spotted as something so different

and that process wore down my shell which was my home

and now I am not a turtle with the shell on her back

I am more the thing that crawled out of it

like the hermit crab

but I am not able to find the right fit of my shell

I am in a tank with those painted idiotic pieces from some dine store shit hole

and I am stuck with my lot.

Yet, I was;t eaten

I have a home

I am fed

I have a shell - just not one that I like

and I keep trying to make it work

or I keep switching

yet

something just isn;t right

and I can’t find my stuff in here.

Where am I?

I feel like the girl from The Secretary might have had the same feelings.

Who am I with all this other stuff inside

yet

I feel so fine when I am alone inn y room with my secret box of comfort.

And

trying to fit in.

She fights for it

when she feels it

when it clicks.

She becomes a woman 

without that step being defined by society.

It was her claimed moment.

And I?

Where

oh where

am I? 

The Day After

Hooked up Google home
Does this mean I am forever done?
All status of off-the-grid gone
All thoughts and feelings
No longer my own?

NYC

Oh my
how I have missed the churning pavement
beneath my feet.

My pace,
My Own.
Makes for finding me
easily.



***

I was brought to tears by a painting
John Singer Sargent
Mrs. Hugh Hammersley.

I brought my spouse to it.
He was not moved.
He had another agenda.
Understandable.
But my eyes were full
and my heart,
stirred.

Awakened,
to something
dreamy.

Migrant mother, mother we are

I wonder about this mother role that I jumped into without knowing.
After searching this famous photo of Dorothy Lange's for answers within the lines of worry and life upon the subject's face,  I thought about how our functionality of being human has altered us -the current mother having so much choice. ..too much?
We are just looking to have the space and place to make and birth the babies,  right?
Yet now,  so different.  With the competition to be "men" and handle everything.
Brings it's also to interesting launching points for the role of men- when we used too argue that we were just a uterus for the men,  now we can say they are walking sperm.
Swung the other way the pendulum has, no?

And i, sitting with this book of photos,  reflecting upon my own world- what do I have to say?
Where is my space and my place?
Do I get to find it even if I have already had the children?

Procrastination

Some believe that their talents were given to them.
I am not so lucky.
I have to dig around for mine
without using tools
without knowing there are tools
without seeing that there were gifts to awaken within.

Later,

I thought about what brought up peace, happiness, contentment, joy

and it is moments when we were all home

all doing our thing
mother is in the garden
weeding in the rain
father is at the computer
playing - or creating - a game
sister is sorting books
putting them in oder
and I
me myself and I

hover

by the sidelines

waiting. 

All Pointing Signs

All Pointing signs can be avoided rather than pricked on...however, this does not change the fact that they are still very much there.

This, from Galactic Rabbit:

Libra

Every couple of years I notice articles circling the internet describing the passing down of intergenerational trauma. How our fears and sorrows, our deepest sources of grief, are etched into our DNA and delivered into the bodies that come from our bodies. A sadness like a vampire inside you—immortal. These sorts of scientific findings compel me to wonder how quiet pain is measured. I think about the way my mother’s face turns dark at the mention of sex. I think about my father’s bad heart and how, when we were states apart, my body felt him fall to the floor. I fell down too; I cracked my chin open. Unconscious, I pissed myself and was ashamed.

In an essay about Serena Williams, in Citizen, Claudia Rankine writes:

Yes, and the body has memory. The physical carriage hauls more than its weight. The body is the threshold across which each objectionable call passes into consciousness—all the unintimidated, unblinking, and unflappable resilience does not erase the moments lived through, even as we are eternally stupid or everlastingly optimistic, so ready to be inside, among, a part of the games.

 Libra, yesterday your body was a living record of all that has happened to you and before you. Today, your body is just a human body—it is muscle, blood, and bone. In order to protect it, the stories that evoke shame must have a different ending.  You must be brave enough to write them.

anyday everyday

I put this blog out in the open in a few places.
because,
well,
dark times reign at certain intersections
and I have read that opening up channels
of any sort
may shed light
of any sort.

So.

Selective Destiny

The 41 club.
My doll.
The fact that my friend Tory is a forest fairy.
Wallie & Steven

My beautiful gold cards.
The seasons of my youth.
The Library experience.
Esalen... for real?

Rhythms and Eurythmy.

Rhythms & breathing.

Books. Author. Bodywork.

Get back up on the horse, walk, meditate, track the circle of the sun and the light it hits.
Sing to the birds.
Build garden houses.
Write, read, breathe, walk, run, dance, sing, be.

Making Things

I'd like to make this...
Now, if only time rolled along for me but stopped everything else for a bit.

Swimming

Moroccan style.

Just because & why not?

I went to a women's writing group this eve- as I came about it in a serendipitous way I figured I would try and go.
We are all so very different, the 5 of us, and with writing bringing us together it just might work.

Next meeting, 2 weeks and I shall have something to read aloud to this new audience. I am looking for prompts as to which of my many ideas I will go with to develop and...why not...consulted my Purpose cards as I found them frighteningly right on the mark twice now. I was called an Oracle by the younger set so it seemed fitting to get the cards for our weekend away.

Tonight, I asked what to dream about, a three card spread. And, this is what came up.

We shall see if I can remember.

Until then, stories abound!

Ok, listening.

So, you can't make this stuff up.

10 minutes at the end of Friday

Friday night, weekend away. A place in some dry hills, cooler temperatures, farm animal sounds drifting through the air.

I wondered about doing my 10 minutes here, out loud, rather than in the book by hand.

It is so easy to delete here - which I have already done so. The waste - of time - or space - of stuff. It is a waste that I wonder what will happen with the stuff. Is there anything to do with the stuff?

Yet, all in all, it really doesn't matter if I do anything with it or if I do not. Just that I sit here and time the 10 so that I can fulfill my goal - the idea is in the practice.

Not drinking alcohol amongst so many who do is a string of moments to write about.

In this moment, I sit in my bunk, next to the window and nearest a door, as intended, with a party of sorts going on outside and around the corner and a quiet space in here for myself and two others. We do not talk. We are alone with ourselves yet I wonder if they feel my presence as strongly as I feel theirs?

In this moment I am thinking if this is unique to me and perhaps why I like to be alone so often - unburdened then by the intake of all their projecting. Information stretching out from their pores and beyond like a wave hitting me

and I sputter

trying to breathe

and still hold my own self afloat.

Yet, in this manner,

who am I?

Just the flotsam reacting to their jetsam.

or

vice versa

it really does not seem to matter.

And this phrase - about the phrase it doesn't really matter - which has been spoken a lot, this is what is on my mind now and how I have used it for effect rather than gathering together my intentions and feelings (both before and/or after) on what I wanted to say. Am I cruel to myself on purpose? Is it because as another mentioned in the circles today that I am still procesing the way in which I was developed before I was even born?

I have been exhausted by all the thoughts lately - all the plots for happiness and 100 days of this or that.

Why not just be by myself and live amongst my own thoughts to see how I really am?

Then I wonder about the other component - the relationships with others - would these come to me on my own accord or do we live seeing the supposed perfect scenario and mimic without thinking.

Am I really just this debbie downer when around people all the time dowm deep and joyful when alone in the deciduous forest?

Do I care to stretch the moments together to test out the theory?

And

does it even really matter?

thoughts going round and round with 11 days to go.

October.

Wrote for 10.
Plank for 60.
10 squats.
Read a book.
Cooked dinner & didn't set table or clear.
Got little boy to bed after bath & books in time.
House clean.
Yard ok.
Halloween decorations in progress.
Talked with friend.
Planned a future event.
Daydreamed a fun scenario.
12 days till 42.
12 days till tipsy.
12 days to get through 41.
Took a photo.
Walked the dog.
Laughed with a big boy.
Thought about decorating improvements.
Sat in the shade.
Concentrated on breathing.
Did a good deed.
Planned a better one.
Experienced a creative moment.
A random postcard brought me to tears.
Received a compliment.
...all in this day.
Thanks.

New found self

Although not writing here doesn't mean not writing anywhere
tho diligent I may not have been.

Discovered a place where my efforts on paper can be appreciated
by me

spent 4 hours on an agenda
feel confident
and free.

It seems as if that little voice
whispering upon my shoulder
when not shushed by the no-can-dos
actually can do.

And
with the reminder
that I do not need to guess
predict
anticipate
the ending
For anyone else but me
I can live free.

Last challenge before 4:15am
find a passage of harmonious truth
to share with other souls

Looking...
looking.

Goals

Meditation is up to 7 minutes,  yikes!

Still haven't written the gratitude letters, making no good clear time for myself...

Writing sporadically, almost every day however in Evernote and not here.

Fell back in old habits, kicked them out (sort of).

Back walking almost every day.

Interested in this 6 month permaculture class, ohmygee- it would be amazing.

School begins this week and I find myself wanting more in-house-alone-time... big boy needs a job.

Byron Katie is amazing. Keep folowing.

Mountains & ocean, who can choose?

Trees, trees, it is all about the trees.

September.

Days till something happens,
Days till nothing happens.

All the signs point in one direction
Yet
I look away.

The ground, 
Sturdy.
My footing,
Even.
My heart,
Yearning.
My eyes,
Ahead.

And...
My bags,
Untended
Unfriended

And

Yet

Blisters
remain.

The Sewing Room

material is what I bring to the table.
cloths so thick with it

and some threadbare
whispy
downright invisible.

and me
wrapped in tapestry
with bells
and a sideways smirk
which hides
on the inside...

materials.
of those,
I have lots.

The Giving Tree

and then the heavens broke
and I was busy
and there were jobs to do
and places to go
and a friend
and I was happy.

The park
a haven for interactions
dreaming of putting in
a little library.
:)

Pixie Dust

Isn't it amazing
when I focus on the shortcomings
the negatives
the problems
then
all I see
are problems
negatives
shortcomings.

And
when
instead
I seek out what I like,
that what likes me comes back.

Amazing.


***


Byron Katie = amazing.
sparkly.
pixie dust was sprinkled
and then she hands you the jar.

And
in thanks
I sprinkle my toes
so I have some wherever I go.

Awake and Dreaming

The twins in the teak cottage
amid the ferns

they work
studiously
side by side.

And I
on a tree lined balcony
the city spread out beneath
with the white Persian cat weaving between my ankles.

The coffee is hot
and the cinnamon still swirling.

I am looking off into the clouds
and feel the mist
from the leaves
from the depths
from the forest floor
so far away
so far away


Tomorrow
the newspapers will arrive
and I will have some such thing
want to read to me about how the day was done
yet
I already know
inside
because I wrote it.

There,
in the octtage,
the walls speak.

Day 1 of year 24

anger or annoyance?

Bubbling, building.
gaining focus.
clearer thoughts coming together.

today I saw the white cat about my ankles
crossing from left to right in the mirror of my dressing room.
when I looked down, she was gone.
the persian princess had been smiling.


***
uncertain about where to be one thing vs another in my world of boxes,
I muddle things up and can not keep them straight everytime.
fruustrating.
human.
equally frustrating.

A lesson which finally resonated enough to stick was that it is the practice and not exactly making it to the finish that counts the most.
Perhaps I knew this as the medals held no triumph for me.
yet,
for some reason,
just saturday
on a new trail
with a different band of women
mist still hanging in the sky
awaiting bright dawn light
I heard it again and it struck.
The practice
is where the perfect is found
and not
the other way around.

***

I must articulate myself wisely.

reading a book by Jean Shinoda Bolen
fantastic.
daydreams about visits to greece
research of history vs. mythology
aching to touch maps and follow the lines of streams

It feels good to have a daydream.
The good is in the practice.

Also, had an idea for a short.

The tale of Artemis, the twin of Apollo
being withheld from her father until it was safe to meet him
and amused he asked her what she wished:
A bow and arrows,
and to find them herself.
Nymphs to follow her
and to find them herself.
Hounds to protect her
and to find them herself.
And the perfect woods, streams, meadows...
and to find them herself.
Laughing, the delighted God granted her this
and off she went.

The hunt for each item as exciting as the item itself
and lost in creating her own world she was.

Lovely.

What Gives?

Doom & gloom.
I always thought it was him,
but
lo
it very well may be me.


***


Took a day off from writing, etc, due to a bad food experience and yes, found how easy it is to rack up another excuse. Didn't walk for 2 days, feel awful. Boo.

Going back to thoughts on being media free for awhile again... there is just so much noise coming in and not enough concentration on me.

Delving into what is authentic
is it ok to live in denial for a huge section?
I know the answer as I write this...
yet why do I shy away from truth?
guilt?
would I council anyone else to live like this?

no.
never.

Stuck in crud. Of my own design.
for 30 years now...
why?

Eve of Thursday

Dates.
My new favorite food.

Dreaming of Persia
and Greece
Water
and Sands

The Bedouin.

Adventure.
Travels.
Absorbtion.
Ressurrection.

I ccok a meal
I dream of wine
the prefect compliment
to my date.

when ideas come

It has been a dry spell for ideas I think because I have been quite down on myself lately. My relationships are not what i expect them to be.
I am not what I expected to be. ..
upon further investigation it turns out I just don't want to work hard for it.
That is ok if I was willing to settle but since I am not,  I am my own royal pain.
Just fabulous.

So,  enter meditation and walking and enforced writing. ..
enter ideas of being in that tiny house by the sea (I can hear the waves crashing even if the train rumbles close by & my neighbors wear underoos in the daytime. Big whoop).
or maybe the mountain one is right for me.
tap, tap, tap go the fingers on the keys
coffee and cinnamon please
a garden
a cat
birds chirping
some swirly skirts
a beaded arm
early mornings on the beach
the bite on a juicy peach

Blah blah
and more blah.
why didn't this publish on time?
dunno, just keep going.

checking the boxes

Made a new meal (kale & roasted carrot salad w/feta, dates and walnuts)

Renewed interest in eatoeating raw.
reading about 5 books at a time:
women's circles
women's quests in mid-life
raw eating
saving the family cottage
men are from Mars, women are from Venus
(Thanks, Gisela)

Mary Oliver haunts me,
as does Jean Shinoda Bolen.

Thinking up what I would do if I could do anything... start that leucadia beach circle on Sunday eve
except
do I really want to be there every Sunday eve?

Seeking a partner in crime for shenanigans...
looking forward to champagne, Dirty martinis, and that freaking mango margarita.

Salt lamp, check.
meditation up to 5 minutes
cracked my self out of bed this am reluctantly however always so glad to go out.
love the cloudy skies, marine layer, fog.
too much sun for me!

23 years ago I had a baby.
dang.

The Inkling

so.

Here I am again.

I understand a reason why I am unable to fully live this life and
it seems
that many others have known this all along.

Dressing it up,
Reading books,
engaging in diversions
even quite intricate
don't change much.
Even
resorting to
coloring the glasses.

When the mind is made up
it is made up
even if there is dress up.
Darn,
because I love dress up.


So,
I had an inkling.
And it rages.
However,
I am good at closing doors
and walking down other hallways.

So.

saturdays

Always a dilemma on how to run this day.

Had a tough time kicking yself out of the bed the morning to walk but I am always so glad I do afterwards.

Lazy breakfast, errands, fighting a nap, beach afternoon with sunset bonfire, roasted divver over the flames and smores with neighbors... not a bad ending at all.

Fighting sleep now but still have to do almost all on my "list."

Had a  nice time this morning reading and communing with myself while boys were at yoga.

All in all, a lovely day, even if the end results are still a fight away.

this week

Meditations are getting easier.
That its good news.

I cooked a new meal,  sweet orzo salad w/feta & carnelized peaches. It was from Hello Fresh, a food prep delivery service.  I really like the idea if this thing however all organic coves would be key.  Their packaging is far better than the competitor Blue Apron. Regardless, I realized I like orzo lots However the peaches were sort of odd and I am not a fan of cucumber either.  I'll toss the recipe but retain the interest in pursuing orzo.

Mailed package to Balin, Happy Birthday! 23, holy crap. What was I doing 23 what's ago?  Better yet, what was I doing 24 years ago? yikes.  Getting older is...interesting...

Got further in on my story idea.
General gist its down with some motivations still need to bete worked out.  Not to bad.

Got re-interested in a writing group.
Reading a book about women's circles... Perhaps there is a connection?

Trouble waking up to walk because of late bedtime.  Love dawn. Must get up.  Boo.

That's the news i'm willing to blab...