packing and playing and procrastinating (with alliteration, nonetheless!)

It's been one of those weeks- filled with love and reiki and way too much ice cream.  I know this because my heart is full and fluttery, and my freezer is empty, and I have a yummy buzzy feeling that compels me to eat like a linebacker which can only translate to a lot of energy flowing and a lot of processing taking place (hence massive ice cream consumption).

I leave in the morning for Portland.  I'm so excited- I feel like a grown up.  Travelling to a new city, unaccompanied (well, at least until I get there and the lovely Caedmon can whisk my under his wing and tour me about town!) but really, very grown up, indeed.  Who needs escorts?  Or chaperones?  Really?  Well, I probably do, actually, which is why Le Caedmonstere is stepping up to bat.  Without even officially knowing me, he knows me oh-so-well.  Hugs are highly anticipated at this point.  As is a nap.

Apprehension set in last night- the "what are you doing?!" kind that creeps up out of no where when you know you've packed too many shoes and are compelled to bring yet another pair, just in case you wear that outfit that you didn't really need to pack, either.  I am lucky I have small clothes.  I can easily pack 2-3 times as much as a man in the same space and be able to bat my lashes and say "what?  I barely brought a *thing*, my bag is FAR tinier than yours could ever be... who cares if it weighs a ton?"  But again, no escort this time, so I'll actually have to lug my own bags, seeing as there's some silly "rule" about not asking strangers to do that for you at the airport.  Chivalry is SO out the window when you're in a terminal-- I've found it's every man (and petite, overladen woman) for himself.  Maybe I should actually lift my bags and see what I've gotten myself into.  Or not.  Seems like it'll make for a far more playful blog entry when I return if at least ONE thing goes wrong, right?  Damsel in distress, anyone?  Hmm... feeling one of those "life metaphors" coming along... baggage, carrying around too much stuff, wanting someone else to carry the burden.... I need to repack and rethink this whole thing.  Damn it.  When did vacationing become so exhausting?  

late night ramblings

Dreary, fog-wet mornings cause me to contemplate elsewhere-- where such happenings are the norm.  Seems peculiar, this strange weather.  Unheard of, uncharted, undecided.  Curiouser and curiouser and the rabbit hole winds down deep; mayas on the hips of some confused Goddess of indiscreet deeds.  Hours traipse past, unnoticed in their swinging glass... wonder where I'll land?, in this topsy-turvy mess I've made... triangulated in the northwestern-regions of my mind's eye, my heart's ache and my body's pulse.  Just wanting to say goodnight: a darkness whisper, a barely-breath, a soul caress.  Instead a muddled mess. Clacking of keys in the earliest hours of tomorrow, instead.

avoidance

I've avoided blogging like the plague.  I've even contemplated stoically carrying posies about- but maybe more so because they're just so morbidly lovely and remind me of corsetry (which is an entirely different blog entry that really should be written sooner than later).  That juxtaposition appeals to me... the heady, intoxicating fragrance of effulgently blossomed flowers united solely and specifically to mask the signs of rank decay.

I simply can't stare at a blank screen any longer.  So though this short, and to many, pointless blog speckle - served a purpose:  it's a *something* to replace the nothing that has been spewed about this page for far too long.  I needed a change of scenery.  Maybe that's why I painted my walls and bought myself flowers.

Cherries

Tonight was filled with Reiki, gifted chicken noodle soup and clean linens.  I just don't know how an evening could get any better- oh, wait- yes.  I do.  Add to it an *amazing* oracle reading that really helped to dispel a lot of fears.  I realize that any reading is a snapshot of a given moment in a very non-linear time-continuum, but, for that ONE split second those cards were representing, delighted my heart in an effulgent, overflowing, bear-it-all and let me bask in the glory of it, sorta way.  It was the spiritual cherry on top of a dark chocolate gelato sundae-day.  The "oh you thought it couldn't get any better? Oh, you think the Universe didn't notice you busting your ass trying to do more than just survive?  Oh- wait, what is it your heart longs for?  Yup.  Pretty much... wait... for... it... could it be... THIS?  Yeah.  Thought so.  Here ya go.  Here's your cherry."   So, now I'm sitting back, watching the flickering candles dance shadows about my home, drinking it all in, savoring every fleeting moment for all it's worth.  Think I'm gonna tie a tongue knot in this here cherry stem- just to remind the Universe that I've got skills and I'm not afraid to use 'em.

Emotive Upheaval

I sometimes wonder if I could survive without my voice.  Maybe what I really mean, is without my thoughts; for I seem unable to not have them immediately spill off of my tongue, creating a slick mess everywhere.  A mess I always tend to slip in- like a child on ice for the first time, finding herself too quickly on her ass, not sure if she should cry or laugh and instead choosing to stare into emptiness with a trembling bottom lip, arms flailing about in under-water slow motion.

I sometimes wonder if I weren't tripping over myself,  feeling the hard crack! of earth under me, wind knocked out of me, embarrassment washing over me, petticoats disheveled, head in a daze, would I even know I was living?  Without the harshest of reminders cutting through the bullshit, would I just meander about in mute ineptitude, oblivious of the need to ache? Picking my way carefully about the slippery spew of others who chose to live a vocal-life of emotive upheaval, damn proud of my tidy underpinnings, muckless shoes and little else?  Makes me want to scream.

Strong Enough

I've been reading David Deida's work.  This is a muddled, not-direct sampling:  when you're distraught, raging and throwing punches and all but scream (and sometimes do) to be left alone; do you want a man who will quietly step out of the room and let you storm? or do you want a man who will wrap his arms around you while you forcefully tempest-thrash until you can *feel* his love, feel that he's on your side through his silent, patient embrace?

I want that.  I want Shiva.  I need Shiva.  For I am Kali, and at times I rage and at times I go insane from the blood of life's demons and I war-dance-crazy.  Though I may look like Lalita: coy, sweet and innocent, I am none of those things and all of those things and everything in between and beyond those boundaries of reason.  I am unapologetic and I believe there is some-man who will recognize my passion for what it is- raw, emotive energy; and be empowered and driven and intoxicated by it.  For I am intoxicating.  I am breathtaking and unbroken, unfettered and glorious in my wildness.  I am.

I am humble.

I am small as I am vast.

I am the silence that echoes before- and after the waves crash.

I am the ringing of bells and wafting incense.

I am Emptiness.

I am effulgence.

I am deep sorrow and exultant joy.

I am orgasms and dark chocolate; Hail Mary's and retreat cave prostrations

I am afraid.

I am surrender.

I am all that is ugly and all that is sane.

I am unhinged.

I am balance.

I am.

Strong Enough

An Ode to Claire

Today I just wanted to write a few choice words about my choice friend Claire.  She's marvelous in a way that makes you crave bruschetta.  She's just choice.  She's earthy-granola-crunchy in stilettos, with naturally cool-blonde hair (the kind that others pay way too much to unsuccessfully emulate).  She has a "thing" for dandelions, Danish-mid-century-modern furniture, 60's French films and Bump-Its.  We fantasize about what it would be like to be 70 and fabulous and wear kaftans and own too many pomeranians and drink martinis before getting out of bed while piling on the amethysts.  It's just what we do- when we're not fantasizing about bruschetta.  In other words, I heart Claire.

The Chariot

Everything is cyclic... everything has a beginning, an end and a rebirthing period... wheel-like.  Why it is we cling to one phase and shy away from others is beyond me, but it is what we do.  It is what *I* do.  Husby packed up and moved out the final scraps, pieces and straggly bits of his belongings today and although it wasn't "much" it feels very empty in here now.  Very vacant.  Very nothing-full.  I feel very small.

It's heartbreaking when things just don't turn out as planned- when the unforeseeable occurs and you're left standing in a rubble-pile of nothingness and could-have-beens.  Heartbreaking.  How is it that your best friend, your favorite being can just not fit any longer (maybe never did)?  How does it happen?  How does it get to that point where it's unfixable even though you're both crying for it to be fixed?  How did something seemingly so perfect in one light show how imperfect it was in another?  As those filters are retracted, how different Reality appears in the light of non-dualism... and how I miss him so.  Heartbreaking.  I think I said that already.

Dukha.  The ill-fitting wheel of samsara.  I thought all I needed *was* a wheel... how was I to know..?  Why wasn't THAT in the manual?  "Not only must you find A wheel, you must find THE wheel with unrecognizable XYZisms or you won't get your cart anywhere on that Path of yours anytime soon, not without throwing your back out in the process."  And now I am wheel-less... ill-fitting or not.  Now I must find ways to compel myself across this bumpy, seriously-needing-to-be-paved-what-the-fuck road, all by myself.  Fashion my own set of wheels- and start anew.  I wonder if I could just hire a mechanic...?

Muchness

Realizations flash past my eyes, open or closed, and I've now realized it's time to wake up.  There is no knight in shining armor, no valiant prince going to come and sweep me off my feet.  What a realization for a woman lost in the mythos of her own personal fairytale.  

It makes me contemplate Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland- where she returns to Underland (Wonderland) to discover her inner muchness and slay her own (inner) dragons.  She falters, she mis-steps, but in the end, she uncovers her true Self; fights, defends and conquers that which has repressed her for nearly her entire existence- societal constraints and a lack of self confidence.  Alice realized she didn't need saving, and there was no one better for the task at hand than herself.  What an awakening.  What an empowerment.  

I wonder, where is my Vorpal Blade?  Truly, my tongue is razor-sharp- though I wonder if perhaps my slaying power comes not when my tongue lashes snicker-snack.. but in its silence.  If only I knew how to recognize my personal Jabberwock.  He is not nearly so vast, or slithy as would make him unmistakable in a crowd.  He is smaller, far more mundane.  Perhaps my own Shadow-self.  All the dark aspects of my being that I've fought against so long- rebelled and pushed against, the cultural and societal pressures of what it is to be an American, a Woman... Maybe I don't need a prince.  Maybe I just need to find my muchness.  After all, if Alice didn't need to live happily ever after, maybe I don't, either.

Never was me

It's smooth... let me guide your hands, let me help you understand how easy it all is.  How sad.  This thigh, this ring, this thing that holds us together, tears us apart and breaks us down to the nothingness that crowns and crashes and thrashes about between tangled sheets and slow, wet dreams of yesterday that we pretend will take place into tomorrows.  Don't make me cry- don't let me fill up, well up and over-flow with all that moistness you thought so sweet now starting to stink of blind-sob-stories with no real plot.  It's not true- this visceral existence that has me drumming and coming and laughing out loud- like that day milk came out my nose- ah, but you forgot, had more pristine remembrances than that: of a white dress or black lace and maybe it was some other girl's face that you can't quite remember... don't want to concede, admit, or challenge that thought, subliminal though it is.  How sad- never was me.  Just roll over, forget the nudge, the grind, the hands down my side- they'll do no good, for though I feign sleep, really I'm just too awake to fuck out this dream-scheme.

June 26, 2007

an excerpt from my journal...




Will you do the laundry?
Yes, my Love.


Will you wash the dishes?
Yes, my Love, though I hate the feel of hot of water on my hands...

But why?
It reminds me of work- that heat.  And you are my relief.  I don't like the two linked, though without the one, this Love wouldn't exist...


Will you be home when I get there?
Always, my Love.


Will you-
-Always, but why does loving hurt so much?


Excuse me?
Why does it ache? Why?


What..?
...joy...


It shouldn't... don't cry...
I don't know how else to feel.


It's alright.
But how can it be?  The dishes aren't clean.

Chloe antics

Sometimes, more often than naught, I believe Chloe is not in fact a dog; merely stuck in a canine body.  I come to such conclusions when she offers her toys to the cat when the cat hisses spasmodically at her; saying with her eyebrows "I love you so, if only you could love me in return.... bone?  They really do make everything better."


Or when she cleans and licks her Pink Dragon, when she thinks I'm not looking, the way a child tends to her dolls with the utmost reverence and devotion.  I caught her placing a pink tennis ball at Pink Dragon's feet the other day, before sitting down beside said dragon, with her own yellow tennis ball plopped between her paws.  (Where is a camera when you need one? Exhibit A: she shares her toys with her toys... and stages them. Not normal doggie activity.)


Or how later, she gingerly placed Pink Dragon on my head, balancing her gently, then standing back to admire her handy-work, head cocked to the side approvingly.  Followed by the next day, gently draping her (pink) rope toy round my neck, feather boa-style, sitting back, head cocked apprasingly, tail wagging in delight.  


Pink is her favorite color, though I am erroneously and regularly told dogs are color blind.  She will always choose the pink toy over an identical one of a different color. Who ARE these people who decide how and what animals can or can't see?  Seriously?  


Chloe's newest, most favorite-st game is soccer with tennis balls, preferably two at the same time.  I get the yellow one, she gets the pink.  They must be quickly rolled across the living room so as to ricochet against the baseboard... this allots her something to not only chase after, but pounce on, kick, paddle and throw (yes, throw) back to me.  Repeat.  Endlessly and tirelessly.  With the hugest puppy grin.  Eventually she will tire, and then it is time to curl up with Pink Dragon and nap.


Right now she is seated beside me, reclining against a plethora of pillows, watching me type- and possibly checking for typos.  I prefer to do my own editing, but I do love her company while I'm writing, so long as she keeps her paws off of my laptop. 

Balloon Animals

I would brave a clown, to bring you balloon animals.  To see your face light up in childlike delight and smile like the first time I saw you.  It would be worth the pain.  Worth the fear.  Because your heart is more dear to me than most, I would be brave for you.

I would sit and wait, just to let you find me.  To watch you search and gain your footing with the same determination of lifetimes ago.  It would be worth the waiting.  Worth the fear.  Because your heart is more dear to me than most, I would wait for you.

I would let you love me, to bring peace to our souls.  To feel that sense of belonging reach through the earth, down through our toes.  It would be worth the vulnerability.  Worth the fear.  Because your heart is more dear to me than most, I would open up for you.


 

Muses and Musings...

Lately my art has been pouring out... or at least the desire to create has been... life has been getting in the way of living, lately... but when the mood strikes I am trying my damnedest to race to my easel, let go and see what happens... here are some of my most recent efforts...

Daffodils

I love it when it rains.. whether it's torrential downpours that staccato-tap on the roof and window panes or gentle, hazy drizzles that soften and refract the light and make everything softly shimmer.  It reminds me of being a little girl and tracing the water tracks on the bay window that I used to love to perch on- sometimes it was my play stage, sometimes it was my secret spot to be surrounded by glass and, thus by the outside world, without having to venture too far... just depended on which way I was facing.  I love the nostalgia combined with the cleansing, purifying sensation that inevitably comes with the sky opening.  The air is clean and fresh and vibrant with potentiality.  

My daffodils and narcissus just started poking their little green heads up; I'm hoping my tulips and other bulbs will soon follow suit.  They inspire me- their willingness to dig themselves out of the darkness, out of their safe, moist-soil wombs and expose themselves to the harsh light of reality; so they can share their innate natural beauty with the world.  Fearless.  I'm sure they love the rain too.  

They are ill discoverers that think there is no land, when they can see nothing but sea. (Sir Francis Bacon)

Waves crash about- roaring silently, colliding against themselves and unseen lands: beneath, below and beyond perception.  How trying it is to navigate such uncharted territories- when obstacles arise without warning, without heed and threaten to bash your very being with their solidity.  I wonder sometimes how much one can truly take in any given moment, when really we are such fragile creatures.  

There is knowing in Tragedy.  There is knowing in Death.  There is knowing in Birth.  There is knowing in Exaltation.  There is understanding in those delicate existences, when one chooses to truly witness it.  How small our bodies, how large our souls, that radiate and emanate far beyond our corporeal forms.  To sense, to touch, to feel another is far simpler when our masses aren't hindering us so- the energies ripple and crave to meld- over any distance or space we deem is surmountable; yet we do not venture past arms' length, for fear of finding not only Other, but Ourselves.  And so we feel alone and sink.

Comforters

Comforters.  Those warm, heavy, soft, snuggly things you pile up on the bed when the weather-storms and emotive-storms are raging... they comfort.  Weigh you down, keep you low to the Earth; redistribute all that weight resting so heavily on your shoulders.  I am a collector of comforters- down ones, wool ones, quilted ones, four-legged furry ones that know in the depths of heartache it is simply best to just lay on top of their person.  

Last night there simply wasn't enough comfort- the need for more blanket, puppy smothering safety was unbearable and was left unsatiated, though somehow I did drift to sleep.  Two months ago my bed was not big enough- wars were waged and many a battle lost in the fight for outstretched limbs and sole pillow propriety.  The past week there has been far too much space.  Emptiness.  Isn't that what I asked for?  Isn't that what I prayed for all these months?  A sense of spaciousness?  To delve into the abyss of nothingness?  To embrace the void?  Here it is.  I am face to face with it- the Void has become my bed-partner, consuming the space my husband once filled.  

I think, perhaps, I'd forgotten just how empty Space really is.  How hard it is to fill it with knick knacks and bric-a-brac.  How kitsch just doesn't cut it.  Realizing two had somehow become one, and now are dividing and slipping back into twoness.  How that twoness has allotted me the *space* to truly be a ONE.  To be whole and complete in and of myself- independent.  Unincorporated.  Sole proprietress of my life.  

That spaciousness truly is beautiful and quiet- oh so quiet!  I've yet to turn the TV on, though mild inquisitiveness prompts me to check if it still works.... hmm.  I get to be me, with myself, in all my entirety and no one can stop me.  It truly is beautiful.  But sometimes I just want those comforters- sometimes I just want to pile them on, all those layers of steady, heavy love, and be lulled to sleep by their constant, weighty warmth.  

aspirations and inspirations

Surprisingly found in the same spot.  In other words:  She's fucking dope.

http://helloabsurdworld.blogspot.com/

Sea Otters

Sometimes I feel like I live in an apartment.  Or a dorm.  Or a frat house.  I've only ever personally experienced one of those aforementioned, in a "live-in-sorta-way" - but I have a great imagination, and I think I know what it would be like.  No- not in the beer bottles and cans that seem to litter every flat surface-and-then-some, kind of way.... or in the toilet is so covered in uhck you're not sure if you should clean it, brush it or sledgehammer caution tape it, way either... but in the "really, are my neighbors bumping RAVE beats right now?  Did they not get the memo?  It's 2010 folks.  Pull your head out of the pot-closet and buy a flippin' calendar.  Also, it's Sunday.  It's 2:30 in the afternoon.  Rave beats?  Seriously?  Now??"

For clarity's sake:  I live in a lovely, quiet neighborhood (for the most part).  I live at the end of a cul-de-sac in a little cottage, that is in a row with four other little cottages.  Ours is yellow.  I'm not a fan of yellow, but I am discovering I am a fan of yellow cottages.  Who'da thunk?  I guess every color has it's proper place.  Or maybe I am color-maturing.  I'm not sure.  I live where neighbor-kitty Blossom jumps in your car when you open the door upon arriving home and looks at you inquisitively as if to say "I've been waiting for you to arrive and chauffer me about town!  What took you so long?  Off with her head!"  Then follows you inside your house as if she owns the place.  I live where neighbor-people send you cards when your Dad dies, and allow your rambunctious pup to play with their unimpressed labradoodle without question, because they know you just really need a break, and they think it's character building for their doggie.  It's a great spot.

What can I say?  My day is quickly degenerating into a huge case of the WTFs.  This is minor.  I get that.  But it's feeling huge.  And I'm still typing about it, and you know what?  The rave beats totally stopped.  Probably five or six sentences ago.  It's not even an issue anymore.  Now I'm just unnecessarily perturbed- and even began writing a second blog about why sea otters aren't all that...just to change the subject... but I stopped myself.  That right there is restraint, because really, sea otters *are* all that, and I think maybe that's what's got me so worked up today.  Damn sea otters.

Puppies for Hire

Sometimes you just have to laugh.  Like, when you hear a loud, repetitive knock on your front door and you instinctually know it's not someone you want to see.  Like, oh, a process server.  He and I are getting to know each other well.  We were first introduced a few days before my Dad's funeral, after my sister answered the door to his loud, repetitive knock and began giving him FAR too much information about my relationship to my Dad.  Sissy loves being helpful.  Unfortunately, I was on the phone at the time with the San Francisco Chronicle taking care of Dad's obituary and wasn't exactly in the friendliest of moods ($400+ for an obit?!  are you SERIOUS?!  bastards.) and sort of "shot the messenger" with a barrage of "He doesn't live here.  He's never lived here.  He passed away 5 days ago- you rude, opportunistic money-monger.. you can take your papers and...." well, I didn't finish the statement, because he looked like he was going to cry, and I think I looked like a gorgon and was scaring him.  He apologized profusely for the confusion, and stepped away to make a phone call.  I waited patiently.  Well, actually, I returned to my opportunistic money-monger Chronicle call, and wrapped that up (multi-tasking at its finest) and THEN waited patiently for him to tell me unfortunately he'd more than likely be returning to serve the papers to me.  I think I slammed the door in his face.  I know I said more than a few choice words.  I cried.  I called Husby.  I called Dad's lawyer.  Dad's lawyer gently advised me to try to be nicer when the process server returned, and to mail him the papers.  I snuffled in compliance.

(Jump forward to 30 minutes ago)

**KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK**  (yes, that many- I am not one to exaggerate.  Much.)

"Oh, hello.  Good morning.  Was there something you'd like to give me?"  I think he thinks I'm bipolar.  I'm okay with that.

"Umm, well, this card was left on your porch," as he stoops and hands me what is sure to be another sympathy card "and yes, I need to give you these."  He says this without raising his hand to actually give me the papers.

"Okay. Well, let's have them, then.  I figured you didn't drive all this way to hand me my mail."

"I just, well, miss, I just feel so bad for you.  How are you doing?  Are you hanging in there?  Have all the arrangements been made?  Was your father ill?  Did it come as a surprise?"

"Sir.  Umm, thank you...?  I'm fine, really.  Everything is taken care of.  My father had cancer and we knew he would pass.  Thank you for your concern.  May I have the papers, please?"

"It's just, well, can I DO anything for you?"

"Wanna go to court for me?  Not really looking forward to it too much..."

"Oh,"   "Well, miss... that's an awful cute puppy you have, do you think I could rent her?  I bet people would be nicer to me if I brought her to the door."

See that?  He changed the subject.  Why?  Because NO ONE likes going to court.  Not even process servers, apparently.

"Yeah.  No.  She's not for hire.  Chloe, get in the damn house."    "Papers?  Please?"

"Oh- hear you go.  Please, take care."

So, I close the door, start sifting through the stapled packet and he knocks again, another seven times.  I wonder at this point, just how large he thinks my little cottage is...?  And also if at this point he's going to ask me out to coffee.  He looks like a coffee drinker.  I'm more of a tea fan.  It would never work.  That and he's old enough to be my father and I doubt Husby would agree to me going on dates with process servers.  But you never know.  Regardless, he's just not my type.  I can just tell he drinks coffee.

"Yes??"

"I forgot to ask your name.... sorry."

"How exactly do you serve papers to someone when you don't know their name..?  You know what?  Nevermind.  Don't answer that.  My name is Danielle Chapatte."

"Chapatte?  That name sounds so familiar."

"Yea, yea, yea, they're all over the damn place.  Big family.  Everyone knows someone.  K.  Thanks!  Bye."

So, I closed the door.  Again.  A little more abruptly this time, though not exactly a slam- just in case he was considering the coffee offer.  And I laughed.  And decided to blog about it.  What a lovely morning this is turning out to be.

Who decides one day that they will, for a living, serve people papers that will devastate their lives, or at the least, seriously foul up their day?  Coffee drinkers.  Obviously.  Even if they are nice ones, there has to be something just not right to choose that as a career path.  I bet he prefers skittles over M&Ms as well.  But that's another blog for another day.

Somethings

Somethings are meant to be heard.  Words that slip.  Sidle, heavy and expectant- effulgent.  Wet.  Weighty words hold meaning- I love you.  Goodbye.  Baby cry- lullaby.  Symbolic syllables, shape-shift, slide;  stretch their meaning across the vastness: one mouth to millions, to one, to none.  Sounds that fill the Void with their own emptiness and reverberate.  Echo.

Somethings are meant to be heard.  I love you.  Goodbye.  A baby cry- lullaby: falling on deaf ears: holds no weight, no measure, bears no story of it's own.  My story unfolds, unfurls; finds itself caught in your ear, tumbling, polishing: a murmur, a roar, an enchantment.  Ocean roils, empty-vast-void, mistaken moments.

Somethings are meant to be heard.  Baby cry-lullaby.  I love you.  Goodbye.

Sane Heartache

Dad passed away.  Passed on.  Left his body.  He died.  He is deceased.  He is gone- and now he is dust.  It sounds harsh- when I read such words out loud.  Words *I* typed.  Words that escaped my lips- crossed my mind.

It is difficult to properly mourn in our society.  There's no room for it- not with bills to pay, and businesses to send death certificates to.  Bank accounts to close.  Neighbors, family, friends and a handful of unknowns to call, thank for flowers, send notes to.  Where is the keening?  The wailing?  The black garb that swaddles and protects you from Society?  We no longer have those things.  Instead we have cell phones and email and instant message that incessantly bombards you with do-gooders checking in.  I fantasized that when Dad died, I would enter into silence.  I wouldn't utter a word, save for the Buddhist Shitro practice (done when someone dies, to wash them of their karmas and help them reincarnate in the highest, most enlightened form possible, for them) for a full 40 days.  That would be dynamic.  Instead I wake to my phone ringing, far earlier than I'd care to wake up at.  If I silence it I then have to sift through and call people back all morning long... I've yet to decide which feels more inconvenient.  I'll get back to you on that one.  Basically, it adds up to a whole lot of talking that cuts completely into my silence.

I cry.  I do.  Don't get me wrong- I cry when I open the refrigerator door.  I cry when a character says something on TV that reminds me of something that has nothing to do with Dad, and that makes me think, maybe I hadn't been thinking about him enough.  I cry.  I do.  But I don't wallow.  And if I do venture towards the Land of Lost Hope, Despair and Hiccup-sobs, I usually get waylaid and find myself back in the Land of Mediocre Sorrow and Furrowed Brows.  The melodrama just doesn't entice like it used to- not to say that a hearty bawling isn't cathartic, and doesn't have its place... just that its siren song no longer captivates me in the same way.  Maybe I have ADD.  Or the meditation finally kicked in.  (That was meditation, folks- not medication... I know, I know.  Fine line, right?)

I think the Reiki helps.  I think now, perhaps it is synonymous with sanity.  "Oh, where are you going tonight?"  "I'm just going to get a little sanity... be back in a few!"  I am finding that I am open- I am processing.  I am riding my emotional waves and they're pretty chill.  No tsunami for me!  (Yet.)  I will say physically, I feel like I've been beaten with a baseball bat.  Between my shoulder blades- where, all you acute yogis, new-agers and energy workers will know, is the backside of my heart chakra.  I feel.  I feel everything.  Intensely.  I barely even squirm from it.  I impress myself.  I keep going back for "sanity" and "sanity attunements", just to check in- just to ask "Am I really open?  Are you sure this isn't a form of shutting down?  I'm so not hysterical.  Shouldn't I be hysterical?  I'm pretty hysterical by nature.  I'm sure of it.  Or at least, I was.  Now I'm not so sure of anything.  Maybe Chloe learned how to swing a bat?  Maybe I pulled something?  Maybe I stayed in supported fish too long?  No?  Really?  I'd have sworn it was a fish-pose problem.  Damn.  So this is what sane-heartache feels like."

Storm

Where is my vice, my vent, my volatile succumbing to sin?

Quiet before the storm... perhaps after...? during.  In its very midst.  Trapped in an eye of bloodshot sobriety, sober-riotry... I cannot ache for I cannot feel past this emptiness.  In its very midst.  Surrounded, strapped down, shackled to its intense reverberating beauty.  How vile- delicate, bittersweet- torrential.  Just pour.  Fall forth, fall down, disseminate, disintegrate, deteriorate.  Just let me sleep.  For this tears and nags and rips-staccato across my skin, gnawing; unwanted soul-tattoo.  And I just wanted respite.

Dusting

I've been hiding.  Hiding from what, I am not sure, but it has caused me to not write here.  Tomorrow morning I will rise at 3 am and drive with Husby to his Mom's; who in turn will drive us to the airport, to fly to the desert.   In the rain.

We must finish packing, loading and moving Dad's valuables (and all my crap) out of his house and bring it home with us.  It will be raining.  It will be windy, and we will be in a 17' U-Haul going over the Grapevine, to come home sometime in the following 48 hours.  There is nothing about this trip that has me enthused, save for staying with dear family friends who cook very well.   Though I have a feeling we will just order pizza, to save time.

I don't want to say goodbye to his home.  I don't want to box away memories.  I don't want to forget anything.  I don't want the responsibility.  I don't want the ache that is in my chest that twists and twangs every time I think about it.

I don't like feeling rushed, and that is all I feel.  Rushed and pressured.  And my coffee table is dusty and has Chloe fur floating across it's lower shelf.  (Now I must dust.  Because I do not want to pack.  Because that will make tomorrow's trip that much more of a reality.  And I would rather hide.  Or dust.)

I don't want to call him from his desk in the nook and ask him if the green paper is more imporant than the white, and what should I do with it.  I don't want to go through his belongings with a fine-toothed comb.  There are mysteries and secrets, hidden away in dresser drawers and tucked up on shelves that I don't want to discover.  Sometimes I hate being a Virgo.

I have laundry to switch over, and I need to warm my feet.  Perhaps I need a cup of tea.  Then I can pack and scour and clean and dust and vacuum.  I want to come home to a refuge- not refuse.  I want to come home.  And I am already here, yet all I can think about is how I will not be, tomorrow.  Tomorrow I will be there- which was home, but no longer is.  And sometimes, this doesn't feel much like home, either.  I am lost and homeless and will soon be orphaned, and I would like to hide now- in the comfort of chores and cleaning and domestic distractions of a finite nature.  Maybe Husby needs shirts ironed.  

Emergence

Plates shift, faults crack; the riff-raff hide under the overpass and pray to gods by the names they know.   Someone laughs.  Worlds collide.  Stars shine and cease and it's aeons before anyone even notices.  A whimper escapes the lips of the birthing and the dying and the angels can no longer differentiate.  And I am in a waiting tank.  Stifle, pause- for wings to dry.  In the in-between I pray not to be swallowed whole.  Pray for just long enough to make a difference.  Or a wave.  A flutter.  Billions pass hands and the burying begins.  But you can't resurrect the past- no, not like that.  No foundation, just rubble and rumble and tumbling down stairs you thought rose all the way to Heaven.  So I unfurl and start my ascent- too distracted by a nectar scent to really make head-way. With nothing left to do, I pray.

Happy Liberation Day

Today, nine years ago, my Mom passed on.  Usually the week or so leading up to this anniversary finds me fraught with grief and overrun by unnamable emotions.  (Okay, not so unnamable: fear, resentment, frustration, grief, anger, guilt....)  This year has found me quietly introspective.  Perhaps there is too much "living in the moment" for me to get wrapped up in "living in the past".  I think I'm growing up.  Or I'm just very distracted.

Dad is still sick.  It's difficult, sometimes to remember he's dying, when he's having one of his better days- then a moment arises when he's not feeling up to snuff, and Reality comes crashing about.  Our views of the world are so... filtered.  I wake up on the right side of the bed and I see everything with the rosiest of tints.  I go to bed too late, or eat too late, or get a kink in my neck from trying to accommodate Chloe's sleeping preferences and I feel as though Armageddon is just around the bend.  Funny, isn't it?  So easily influenced by outer factors.  I'd like to believe I'm more grounded and centered than that.  But I know better than to believe everything I think- so I sway.  I sway with the tidal rhythms and pulls of my life and I ride that proverbial wave, and try to not swallow too much water.  Sputtering is so not sexy.

I don't miss my Mom like I used to.  I was asked last night if it was getting any easier, her being gone- and it's not.  Not by a long shot.  But I don't miss her the same way.  I've learned to accept her new "form"... really, formlessness.  And am embracing it.  I recognize her in everything.  Certain scents that waft through the air, the way a plush fabric feels under my fingertips, quirky comments made by random people.  I do miss her hugs, and napping with her.  Mom always appreciated a good nap.  I keep trying to explain to Husby that it is something genetically passed down from her, and to simply embrace the necessity of napping.  He's not buying it- but that's simply because he never got to meet her.  Otherwise I'm confident he'd understand.  I miss her advice (which I never followed, but that is irrelevant, and part of why I miss it).  I miss her voice, which sometimes I can hear when I'm being very still- but it's not the same.  

Emptiness and Form.  One and the same.  Our particles buzz about with far more space in between than naught; and yet all we ever cling to is the Form.  Silliness.  Silly unenlightened people.  So wrapped up in what's in front of us, we forget what's really going on.  When I look at it that way, I feel almost selfish for grasping so firmly to the memory of Mom's form.  She was so much more than the sum of her poorly assembled parts.  So much more than they could have ever amounted to- and how wonderful it must be for her to have been liberated from the bonds of illness, pain and suffering.  And yet, all I've wanted for years now, is to "see" her.  I think something just clicked.

Happy Liberation Day, Mom.  I love you.

A La La Ho!

Today was a day unlike any other... an earthquake-morning (which I was unaware of)... some playtime with the pup at our favorite beach,  my first birth as a doula (which I missed the delivery for, but still was able to do some post-partum work and loved every moment of it) and an evening of Reiki with an amazing master!  I've learned so much in the past 10 hours I feel like I might burst at the seams- which means I need to meditate and practice soon, but first I'd love to divulge more about my experiences.

I was just getting on the road to visit Dad when I received a text saying "I'm at the hospital NOW"... I immediately turned around and raced home to change and ask Husby to wrangle some food for me to inhale on my way over the hill.  The text came at 12:11 this afternoon.  I was outside the delivery room at 12:55.  Natasha was born at 12:52... three minutes before I arrived and was waylaid at the nurse's station.  It was a bit anti-climactic, but I was in complete awe of the beauty of a five minute old baby.

I watched her turn from the soft color of a pale rose to a shimmering, soft, vibrant peach.  I watched her face soften and decompress and take on the features of her mother and father.  Her deep blue eyes open and take in the world around her for the first time.  Watch her fall in love with her mother's face and clearly recognize her father's voice.  She was the quietest, most serene being I'd ever witnessed and I felt the gentlest form of humility being in her presence.  Her mom asked me if she seemed okay when the nurses bustled out... if her silence was a sign of something problematic;  it was obvious that was not the case: it was a sign of her gentle, compassionate birth.  Her mom (from what I heard and what I know of her) did an amazing job at staying calm and present and loving throughout her very rapid labor.  And the placid look that Natasha maintained was evidence of that.  She barely fussed when put through the gauntlet of pokings and proddings- simply waited patiently to be reunited with her mama.  I loved holding all 9 pounds 4 ounces of her!  Introducing myself, keeping her snuggled when mom had to be monitored or used the restroom, or needed a mini-break.  Taking all the pictures I could to document the mini-miracle.  It was heaven for me, and I knew I had found my calling.  I stayed with the new family for about four hours- as long as the mom wished, and offered advice when I was asked and shared in the joy and wonderment of her new life.  Although I missed Natasha's actual birthing, I feel as though I was truly present for the celebration of her Birth Day and will always cherish those memories.  Assisting and guiding through such transitional phases is deeply rewarding to me... I thrive and relish the experiences, and feel deeply blessed.

Driving home I felt compelled to stop at my favorite Santa Cruz witchy-shop to see what was "new" and just enjoy how juicy it always feels in there- maybe I just wasn't quite ready to "come down" and back to reality.  While there I met an amazing woman who was offering a weekly Reiki-Share, which she invited me to sit in on, if I felt so inclined. (Which I did!)  At first no one else showed up, so if was just she and I- touching palms, enjoying the flow, as it were.  We both felt intimately connected to one another and shared so much about ourselves in a few brief moments. And did I mention this amazing Reiki Master is also a doula???  Kismet. I received much confirmation regarding the events of my life this past week and the direction my path seems to be leading me... and it was such a restorative and rejuvenating experience after what turned out to be an adventurous and life-altering day...A La La Ho!

Reality

Is it wrong to dread visiting someone?

Dad has started his journey towards death, and it is harder and harder for me to bear each day.  I am hesitant to go and see "where he is at" today.  This morning he sounded feeble.  Only a few days ago it was hard to believe that he had lost his appetite- he sounded so vibrant.  The hollowness in his voice is unmistakable.  He is tired and ready.  I just pray that his journey is swift and as painless as possible.  For his being and wellness of course... and for mine too.  I can feel each of his aches, pangs, cramps and nausea.  I'm exhausted and vulnerable.

So, I'm finished procrastinating- time to face reality head-on.

Shenanigans

New Year's Eve is always an anomaly.  I always find myself with people I'd never expect to be with in what appears to be some altered form of reality.  Hailing 2010 was no different.  Husby's Bestest arrived around 8 to be my date for the night, as Husby had to not only work, but close for the night.  Last one out.  Who knows when.  And I must say- I'd love to have a talk with this "Who".

Dinner was the plan, but after driving from one closed restaurant to the next packed one, Bestest and I quickly realized that was no longer in the plan and headed towards Husby.  Parking was surprisingly misleadingly easy and the wait for the cable car was surprisingly expectedly long.  The place was packed by 8:30 and no seats were to be had... I flexed what little power I had, and quite feebly at that, with "I'm Husby's wife- could you page him please?"  He arrived at the hostess' podium promptly to laugh at me.  Rude.  And called for.  Once he was finished laughing, he said he'd be right back- to see what he could do.    "Okay, one of our receptionists is with a friend, and she said you two could sit with them.  They've been here a while- can't imagine they'll be staying much longer.  She's wearing a white hat."  My retort was not a polite "thanks" but instead: "What was she supposed to say? No, boss, I don't want to sit with nor spend New Year's with your kooky wife?"  He laughed and walked away.  So we walked to White Hat, who will be from this point referred to as "Detroit" and introduced ourselves.  Detroit and her friend, who had just moved that day from Michigan, will be "Midwest".    Detroit and Midwest were just polishing off what Bestest and I thought was their first bottle of wine.  What's that saying about assumptions?  Hmm.

Detroit was energetic, extroverted and inebriated.  Midwest was not.  Okay, she was drunk too- but a quiet, shy drunk.  Midwest spent most of the night quietly whispering to me that Detroit really was a very great gal.  Detroit spent most of the evening putting her foot in her mouth in an effort to disprove Midwest:

You look really great for a 31 year old! (Thanks?  I hope the same can be said when I actually turn 31.)

Oh- you must be pregnant.  You have that look.  (What look?  Pleasantly plump? On top of old? Really? Is shiny being mistaken for glowing?  Do I need to powder my nose?)


All in the first 22 minutes of sitting down, which translates to: not even 9pm yet.  When is midnight again?  Can someone move the clocks forward?  Please?  Seriously.  Please?


You and Husby are total stony-pot-smokers, huh?  (This was prompted because I knew the words to "Puff the Magic Dragon" which was being sung by the live musician on stage.)  That's so cute! Don't worry- I won't tell any of the other employees, Husby is so great to work for!  Really nice.  He lets me go to the bathroom and watches the phones for me.  None of the other managers do that.  (Why?  Why?  Why?)  Cuz ya know- you and I, we could always, you know, when I'm not working and stuff.  It'd be fun!  (Do what?  Why? Why?  Why?)

So, does Husby do coke?  Cuz someone asked me that the other day, and I said "oh no.  He's just an energetic sort.  Like me.  I'm energetic naturally, ya know."  I mean could you imagine me on coke?  I'd be CAH-razy!  I don't think he believed me though.  But I thought I'd ask anyways, cuz you never know.  (Wait.  Excuse me.  Did you just ask me if MY husband, your boss is a coke-head?  NO.  No he is NOT a coke head and we do not smoke pot.  Sheesh.  How did this conversation start?  That's it.  No more song lyrics for me.  I am never going to Michigan.)

So, Bestest.  Let's play a game.  Lets have ALL the 25-34 year olds, the single ones, here.  But no bums or creepers.  (Even this warranted a "huh?" from Midwest, which was somehow comforting.)  You're single, right, Bestest?  (This was a veiled attempt at finding out if Detroit had any chance under the Big Ball Drop to "hook up" with Bestest.  Which, she didn't have, but it was kinda cute to watch.)

*****                                                                                                                  

I just realized I could go on and on and on and....  so I will stop.  Needless to say, the questions became more inappropriate, more ludicrous, more hilarious, and in regards to Bestest, more desperate; as the empty bottles crowded our small four-top.

Bestest was throwing back his Captain n' diets with ease and I was throwing back my water: ice, stirred, also with great ease.  Husby would occasionally whoosh by with a kiss for the top of my head.  And the clock was finally beginning to creep towards midnight.  We were (the entire bar) laughing, singing, drinking and many were dancing.  I was not.  I prefer to sing loudly and off key.  Bestest was not, he preferred to watch Detroit scowl at him as she danced with other men.  Midwest was not, she preferred to try to sleep on the cocktail table.  And Husby was very, very busy.

11:48pm.  Everyone was in plastic top hats or tiaras, noise-makers in one hand, champagne in the other.  Bestest was texting Husby with profanities for not being by my side... just as Husby pushed his way through the crowd and wrapped his arms around me.

Midnight.

Everything was worth it.  All the shenanigans.

Bestest and I stayed past all the other celebrants- to sit for a moment with Husby in his empty bar.  With payroll and closing paperwork to contend with, we headed home and promised to wait for Husby to come home.  ETA: 2:30am.  I put on jammies and snuggled with a sleepy pupalupagus.  Bestest switched to beer.  2:30 flew by.  As did 3:30.  Just shy of 4am Husby came home, to an exhausted, but still awake wife and Bestest.  We yawned.  He poured drinks.  I silently shook my head and crawled into bed with a staggering pup.  I do not know what they did.  Though this morning there were empty glasses on the table.  I do know I drifted in and out of sleep with Husby's arms around me, and the promise of a New Year was granted  As was a sleep-in.