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.

Mad World

Why?

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?

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.

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.