Sunday, March 25, 2012

To be Human

For the ache of being Human.

To be Human is to love unconditionally the passion that plays endlessly in endless ways.

To share rivers of beauty and pain and to wash your sins in each of them.

To ache in the comfort and loneliness of a world with endless possibilities.

To continually ask and know you already hold the answers.

To listen to the Mother inside that already knows. She will never leave you.

To dream and to know that when you wake up, the moon will be resting in the crook of your palm.

And to know that above all, Love is the only hope you have for being alive in all of this.

All of this.

All of this.

All of this.

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Mad World


Because of the moon and wild laughter. And because of candles and chocolate and sunshine. Why? Because the world spins madly, and I spin too.

"There are years that ask questions, and years that answer."--Zora Neale Hurston

Because every year I seem to be asking more and more questions. And I keep waiting for the magical year that will bring answers.

Only to look behind me and find that they have been hidden in the woodwork and the stained glass I failed to see. That every year asks questions, and every year I can look back and find answers. Perhaps I will never find answers NOW...who knows?

Because sometimes I whisper to myself, it is going to be ok. Sometimes I whisper.

There are years that my soul feels as though it has floated to the heavens. Danced a dizzying spiral and cracked through barriers, to burst into the Holy.

And then there are years like these. When I am constantly fighting to keep some spark alive. When I am constantly questioning and looking for signs. Someone tell me something, please. There are years that my soul folds itself into a neat origami crane and waits patiently for the right moment to fly.

I am folded. And unfolded. And clouded and tired
and searching.
Where are the signs this time?
What have I been blind to?

How do I find my footing in a sluggish, frustrated state?

How do I tell you, exactly what I need to say?
and would you listen?

How do I find the words that can even come close to the beautiful agony of living in a world where there are so many answers?

My nose is pressed up against the glass. My eyes are searching, glimmering, waiting. My heart is pounding. My soul is foggy. She whispers to me but I still cannot hear her against the wind in my ears.  Are there signs? Or simply a moment of revelation when we stop waiting and start doing?

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Full Moon

The moon reminded me of wolves and the stars punched the sky, bleeding their way into the night.

I haven't been anything extraordinary lately.

But the world continues to move in extraordinary ways. Always waiting for someone to notice, or not even waiting at all, but twirling on through time. Life doesn't wait for me to catch up.

I have not mentioned how much I love our little house in Bozeman. It is messy, and often hairy (thanks Gypsy) but it is familiar and more familiar than any place I've stayed in years. It welcomes me each morning, drawers in the same place, coffee in the same cupboard, and bowls in the same nest. I do not have to tip-toe around, wondering how the hell anyone takes a hot shower, or wondering if it is time for dinner. It is MY house, at least for now, and in that there is a place that lets my bones rest and stay awhile.

One of the reasons I feel so odd posting in this blog is because even though what I write is honest and I do it for myself, I began to feel as though I live two worlds. One in which I interact with real people, and the other where I express my true feelings and thoughts. And making those two worlds mesh feels near impossible sometimes. Example: A classmate and I are talking and although I want to get closer, I am blocked somehow from saying what I actually feel.
Classmate: How are you?
Me: oh, pretty good. Enjoying the reading
Classmate: Cool.

How I REALLY wish this would go:
Classmate: How are you?
Me: I am feeling a little stuck. My brain and body feel disconnected and I am struggling to reconnect. I saw the full moon last night and I didn't feel anything. It was terrifying. Where has my wildness and heart gone?
Classmate: I am so glad you shared that with me.

HA! And yet, even as I try to say something that is a little more honest, I am often greeted with strange looks which is even stranger because I know that I am not the only one feeling this way!

How does one make authentic friends? How do I find people that actually understand what I am saying and don't find it weird? But mostly, how did I bring the people in my life into this world as well as the world I actually speak to them in?

How do I speak honestly in the 'real world' and be understood?

Ramblings of a stuck soul trying to mesh and blend and make something out of this beautiful day I have been given.

Thursday, March 8, 2012

Coming Home

Although I have not posted on this blog for quite some time, and even contemplated deleting it, I have come back to it as a useful means of sharing stories. I am currently trying different formats and whatnot to try and make it visually more appealing, but, since I am pretty terrible at technology, it could be awhile before this blog gets a makeover. 

Welcome back! And I hope the reading continues to be enjoyable, thought provoking, and perhaps even inspiring. 

I thought about what to write about for my first blog in a long time, and finally decided that I will just write. And share. And hope in that revealing this small part of myself I do not completely embarrass myself. 

These are truths. And every story promises to be. 

Chupito and Henry

My soul twists and turns like a corkscrew opening wine on a night when you're left alone to drink. My heart hangs heavy, like the moon on a string, sinews snapping. 

I thought that I had forgotten. Or at least diluted the memory to a pleasant anecdote. And then, in the midst of yelling, beer cans cracking, and fiberglass shuddering, I saw the face of Chupito in the eyes of Henry, a small three year old. And my heart broke open, nectar spilling onto the floor.

You never truly leave anything behind. Instead it crawls its way into your memory, wriggling into the folds of time until a single moment can bring the entirety of the moment crashing back into the present. I stood watching the hockey game, and then I was sitting on a bench in Guatemala, shaking, trying to inconspicuously wipe tears from my cheeks. 

And what does it matter? I am back in America and Chupito is at least six years old by now, somewhere in the maze of Guatemala. I could never find him, even if I wanted to. 

And still, it is everything. It matters most of all, because I still cannot leave the feeling that I left Chupito and all the other children at the shelter. And he changed my life more than I will ever be able to change his. 

And what can I even write that could come close to the pain and guilt that racked my body later that night, laying in bed, sobbing uncontrollably, and still, tears brought no relief. What we leave behind is often as important as what we take with us. 

Still, I float between caring so much that I feel as though I may burst, and being unable to even give a shit, listless and numb towards what happened three years ago. How do we learn from these memories without the pain crippling us, and the indifference bandaging it? How do we find the line between letting it go, while still finding a way to never let it go? Does any of this even make sense?! The painful indifference of someone trying to navigate between this complicated world of past and present. 

Yet, still all of this does not feel completely right, as though somewhere in here I am missing something. With honesty and trust, I hope to uncover this missing piece and release it to the air, making these stories all the more invigorating. 

Tuesday, May 3, 2011


There is a song that has been itching its way through my heart. It is a song that I haven't heard in a long time, and there are reasons that my brain is still trying to ignore it. It weasels its way through my bones and out into my fingertips.

It says, settle.

For the past four years I have been running. And it took me four years to realize I wasn't running TO anything but rather running AWAY.

There is a part of me that surrounds my soul. Less than an iron fist: more like a moist, limp handshake. A tinkling voice in my head and keeps me from realizing my whole self. It whispers late at night and only recently did I acknowledge it.

It says, You don't belong.

And that is why the open road has been such a great appeal. Because I can't belong. I can't belong to any town when I only stay a night. I can't belong to anyone if I leave all new friends within the week. And so, for awhile, I entertained this voice. I came up with excuses, and they were good ones too.

And so, a couple of months ago, when I started to think about attending college, this voice once again came out of the shadows. I was excited about school. I felt ready to sit and learn. I felt ready to feel safe and bake in my own kitchen. I felt ready to stay. Something I haven't felt since I was 15.

And then my mind began in it's usual fashion. Well, school would be ok, but I think I would get sick of it. I can't handle a year long lease. What if I get bored? I think I need to road again. College is overrated anyways. I have done fine for the past couple of years without it. 

But behind all that, behind the voice that I have been hearing and listening to, came something else. At first it was just a whisper. Like a wrinkle in the sheets. Like the burn of cigarette paper. And for the first time in my life, I acknowledged it. I heard something else, and even though it hadn't quite surfaced yet, I knew it was something important.

Settle. That word is still so scary to me. For someone who has lived by her own rules for a few years, the idea of being "stuck in one place" is terrifying.

But I kept listening and eventually my soul grew stronger. It says, stay a year, and just see what happens. See what you learn by staying. Watch the trees turn orange, and then fall off, and then witness the magic of spring after winter. Bake bread in a kitchen that is all yours. Buy a cookbook and then make dinner in a house that is all yours.

Stop running and listen.

This is not to say that my adventures have been tainted. I have been wild my whole life and there is a real part of me that can only be satisfied by adventure.

I am still not ready. I still hear a voice saying that I don't belong. But this time, there is something else there. Something fighting back and saying, you don't need that.

Do you have something encasing your soul? Something that keeps you from shining like you did the moment you took your first breath.

Scared to try and find something different that running. But my heart is ready and my head just needs to catch up.

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Sick and tired of being sick and tired

Somewhere along the road I lost where I stand. Swinging back and forth between paths, between opinions, between sad and tired. Eminem woke me up yesterday. "I can endure no more, I demand you remember who you are."

When did it become so hard to be ME? Simply be the big beautiful being I know I am. Why do I lose myself again and again, and go through these periods until I emerge on the other side. How many more times am I going to struggle, continue falling, then pick myself up. I am sick of it! I want to be happy. I am tried of these peaks and valleys that plague me throughout the year.

Why can't I just remember?

I know I am better than this. And even though I recognize it, I somehow find it impossible to get out of this funk.

Sad because I am sad.

Confusion, frustration, anger, weakness, wondering where that damn light is.

I tell myself that this is all part of growing up. But it is a hell of a lot easier to say that on the other side of this fog.

Have faith in this. Have faith in the process and understanding of sadness. Have faith in letting yourself feel it without any inhibitions. Have faith that letting myself feel is the only thing that will work through it.

And yet, faith can be the hardest thing to find.

Thursday, April 7, 2011


Something wet falls on my head. Please don't let it be bird shit. But it is a drop of water. Here is the sign I have been looking for. Plip plop dulop. Speak.

I was not born like this. I grew like this.

Grew. Grew into this being that knows better, but rarely does better. That thinks in rhymes and poems, and speaks plain so no one will think twice.

Born? You want to know what I was born like? A being that could change the world, that painted the sunsets, that wished on stars, that was meant to be BIG. Bigger than anyone in her life, expanding over the world, on talk shows and radio, NPR's most sought out guest. Born to live and to live like a firecracker.

This is the sign you have been waiting for. Stop waiting to be the biggest being you can be. The world is calling for you to live like you were born to be. More importantly your heart is calling you. The crook inside your ventricles that begs the word soul is tired of being cramped up and unused.

It is time to put the pen on the page. The ballet shoes on the wood floor. The wheels on the road. It is time to use the light that you were born with.

Seeds do not think about how to grow up. They know they are to be an onion or a pea pod or a strawberry and with a little love, light and soil they grow up right. We human beings get lost somewhere between being a seed and a strawberry.

This is the sign that says blossom.