Category Archives: Human

Box up your crap. Part One: The Spirit Self

happy box

happy box (clipped to polyvore.com)

There are a lot of people doing what they need or have to do to get by in this world. They often sacrifice who they are in order to keep the peace, to meet the status quo, to maintain a balance no matter how precarious that may be in unhealthy emotional, intellectual, spiritual, or even physical realms. The lamentations of their despair become a litany of unresolved, unrecognized, and unheeded personal warnings. They have compromised more than they should have when faced with difficulties that, at the time, seemed insurmountable.

It may seem like one just can’t catch a break. Everything such as family issues, occupational hazards like co-workers or bosses, neighbors that fight at 2AM, they all seem to pile up around the edges of our minds, creep in until they become so daunting that curling up in a ball is the only way to feel protected. But, as an adult, we know that’s not responsible towards fulfilling our own needs, wants, desires, or beliefs.

What is required to stabilize the influx of either permitted or illicit chaos in our lives? It’s your Happy Room.

Imagine standing in the middle of a room. It can be any color with as many or as few of windows as you desire. There is a shifting floor and an infinite ceiling. Each wall of this room has shelves from the floor on up to as high as you can reach and beyond. Each wall represents different aspects of our lives, each shelf dictates the significance we place on those aspects. On the many shelves are boxes made of all types of materials such as wood, cardboard, concrete, tissue paper, etc. In those boxes are everything you’ve ever learned, thought of, forgotten, seen, heard, felt, dealt with, avoided but acknowledged, believed, discarded, been, and done.

The wall to your left is filled with the MUST things like paying bills, feeding yourself, going to work. The basic essentials. (To be expanded later) The wall in front of you is filled with RELATIONSHIPS. Every one you’ve ever had; The good, the bad, and the mediums. The wall to your right is filled with TEMPORARY issues. Nearly running out of gas, having to run to the store, remembering the kid’s field trip money, things that although are important when occurring don’t have a dominant impact because of their transience. Behind you is, of course, your PAST. Anything before this moment is there. The floor is constantly shifting with the emotions that can sometimes bog down the spirit or uplift the Divinity within. Looking up, the ceiling is infinite with possibilities, goals, and dreams.

In the middle of this room stands your Spirit Self. The quintessential you that’s filled with, sometimes, an innate Divinity begging to be discovered and experienced. It is the part of you that begs for you to follow your Personal Best path by embracing everything that you can be. It’s the part of you that sometimes gets neglected because the boxes on the surrounding walls fall off the shelves and distract you from following your path. This is the essence of who YOU actually are and what orchestrates how you deal with and work through situations.

When we live our lives, we have all the information we need to deal with whatever situation we’re currently facing. It could be something as simple as when to go to the store, or as complex as death of a loved one, or as mundane as how to meet that seemingly impossible deadline. Regardless of what issues we are dealing with, our Spirit Self knows what to do if we’d only listen and trust that to be true.

Everything you’ve experienced has shown you how to do THIS. Whatever IT is, you already have the tools to handle it. But, sometimes our tools get broken or we don’t value the lessons we’re learning. It’s easy to throw up the hands while declaring, “I don’t know what to do!” Those are the times, in my personal experience, that we do actually know what to do but it may require confrontation, a difficult decision, or a letting go of the past. Distasteful difficulties that pop onto the radar with a sharp bang that indicates another box falling from the shelves. They could be from any of the walls or a combination of them, but whatever it is, the floor of emotions rises up and our Spirit Self has to figure out how to coordinate efforts.

Think of what makes the floor rise with happiness under and throughout your Spirit Self. If you could do ANYthing right now and get paid to do what you love, what would you do? If that’s too difficult, go with what you wanted to be when you grew up. Start there then expand your ideas like a snowball. Lists are helpful to find the common thread between what you wanted to be and what you became.

I always wanted to be a writer. My mother used to read to my brother and me aloud. No matter if it were the newspaper, her college books or papers, stories, she read. Because of that, I don’t ever remember not being able to read or write (except cursive, I remember learning that.) The places she’d take us when she’d tell us stories fascinated me. When I got old enough to understand fact vs. fiction, the world exploded with possibilities. I decided that I wanted to write stories. I wanted to hold the moniker of Author. But life happened and although I piddled around with this or that, I didn’t do it.

February of 2013, I broke my foot. I was unable to keep the job I’d gotten in December. It was not a good point for me on so many levels. But, as if by a magical force, my Spirit Self said, now you have time to do what you wanted to do all along. Take advantage of it. I had time to get involved in my community, which I love to do. I had time to write articles, stories, and to begin a blog. With each word I put down on paper or here, I’ve found myself filling my Spirit Self with the destiny I dreamed about since I was a young girl.

You remember too. If you listen to your Spirit Self and tune in to your personal happiness, you’ll hear it calling you. It may be just a whisper for having been neglected, but it is there. It is waiting. It is willing to give to you. It wants you to remember your Spirit Self title and discover an entirely wonderful new world exactly where you are right now.

It does sound farfetched. It may seem like there isn’t enough time in the day to devote to “discovering yourself.” But truly, the gifts you hold inside of you, the wonders of your unique perspective, your personal voice expanding into Spiritual practice via acts of happiness changes perspectives, clarifies the muddy waters of emotions, and guides you back to the lighted path of your Spiritual Self’s personal Divinity.

ABC’s of Rebuilding a Relationship

or put that fire out

Lighting the bridge of forgiveness

There’s a person in your life or your ex-life that you just can’t shake. A person that is missed so much that whatever drove you apart sits on your back like a bag of bricks. Perhaps you’ve tried to set that bag down and leave it without unpacking the contents but by some weird irony it’s still attached to your weight slumped shoulders from the burden of things left unsaid.

Is that relationship toxic? If so, then perhaps reading this article will help you set those bricks down and walk away.
http://theanjananetwork.net/2014/03/27/say-goodbye-ending-toxic-friendships/

However, if that relationship is not toxic, but instead requires your attention to make reparations like this article demonstrates:
http://theanjananetwork.net/2014/03/26/persephone-and-demeter/

Then how do you go about making that happen? How do you go from no contact to tentative conversation when time has elapsed and perhaps caused a Grand Canyon sized hole in your heart? It can be done with time, patience, compassion, and forgiveness.

  •  Admit you started the fire to burn the bridge: One of the hardest things is to admit to yourself is when you’ve done somebody wrong. It’s easy to lay the blame at their feet because after all they’re the ones that caused your anger and your release of the relationship in the first place. But sometimes that’s a lie we tell ourselves to keep from being responsible for our own actions. It’s a reflection of our not so shining moments. Try it on. I made a mistake that wrecked a relationship. Take responsibility for your error.
  •  Build a new bridge: Reach out to the person via text, email, phone call, sky-writing, blog post or any other way to let them know you’re willing to speak with them (I asked my brother to mediate). If they are receptive, apologize for what you did or said wrong. Leave expectations on the floor because sometimes the wound you’ve caused can run so deeply that there may be rejection or disbelief of your intentions. Remember to not just speak the words but act appropriately. You’re asking for a new relationship which means you’re approaching them not as the former person, but as you are right now.
  •  Compassion for yourself and the new relationship: The old wounds will be there. They may be scabbed over or even scarred, but they will be there. Realize that when you look at those with compassion in your heart, they fade after time. Think of it as falling in love with that person’s current self and from the point you’ve come to in the realization that this relationship is worth it. History can’t be changed, only the right now is important. Be gentle with yourself and their feelings.
  •  Dissolve anger, pride, and resentment: Holding on to anger is that bag of bricks that weighs your spirit down. Realize that you reacted or acted in a very human manner. Your feelings of resentment about their prompting actions or because of their absence from your life because of your choice have no place in the new relationship you’re attempting to re-establish. The pride that kept you from making the reconnection before needs to find the humbleness of release. Feel the emotions, but don’t hold them. Allow them to dissipate.
  •  Evolve your view of the person you harmed: Are you the same person you were when you cut the relationship from your life? Of course not. They aren’t either. Meet them as if for the first time, because technically, you are. Get to know their current self because what you remember may (or truthfully, may not) be accurate. Anger changes the color of memories to murky depths instead of embracing the current vibrancy of now. This is a new day and a new relationship based on time passing. Let them be who they are now, not how you remember them.
  •  Forgive yourself and the other person: This one can prove difficult depending on the circumstances of the separation. By setting down your feelings from the past and allowing things to be as they are, forgiveness is not far behind. Forgiveness helps us to see things clearly again. It wipes the slate clean even if the faint outline of the transgression can still be seen, it’s no longer the focus of the relationship. The focus shifts to rebuilding instead of rehashing.
  •  Give love willingly: What if the person you’re reaching out to rejects your attempt at reconciliation? What if they don’t want anything to do with you or your efforts to rebuild? Love them anyway. Just because you’re ready to re-establish a relationship doesn’t mean they are or ever will be. Love them anyway. If they are willing, then don’t be afraid to let them get to know you as you are now. Your personal growth has brought you to a point where you realize the value of what you’ve been missing. Let them see that. Allow the vulnerability of love to fill in those parts, whether rejected or accepted. Love them. Love yourself. Let it be organically grown from your heart no matter their response.
  •  Healthy Communication: Be honest with yourself and the person you’re re-establishing a relationship with. Speak from your heart while listening to their spirit. There is nothing more satisfying than accepting one another exactly as you and they are. You don’t have to be a “Yes, ma’am/Yes, sir” kind of person when you disagree with them, but allowing yourself to communicate your own wants and needs, you’re establishing grounds for them to do the same. It builds trust, balance, and reinforces your sincerity.

Great things can take time to build or rebuild. The patience you offer while putting the relationship back in order pays off by giving you what you seek should they be willing. At the very least it will give you closure, understanding, or a clear picture of what could have been. But it can also give you the opportunity to forgive your younger self of the follies of poor choices. Although there is no guarantee that the other person will be receptive to your outreach, discovering that you can set down that bag of bricks is totally worth it.

Reawakening My Mother

Mother and daughter reunited

Mother and daughter reunited

Persephone yawns and stretches from her slumber. The trees respond with kisses of green bud promises. The flower bulbs planted in the autumn reach out to impress her with their dazzling array of colors. Coaxing her to return, beckoning her to shed the grays and browns of her winter clothing and cloak herself in their kaleidoscope prism.

 

The birds sing in accordance with Demeter’s joy of her daughter returning. The birds, the animals, the people engage in the renewed mating rituals of the season. The winds whisper, “She is coming. Persephone returns.” And the mother responds to the words with rains of happy tears and dabs the scent of rejuvenated earth to entice her daughter closer.

 

My nature heeds the calling I hear as the Wheel turns from icy winter winds that left me breathless to the return of the daughter to her mother.

 

I was estranged from my mother for over 18 years. By my own hand, I severed the cord between us, rejected her wisdom out of spite. If the words came from her, they were lies and falsehoods in my mind. I despised the idea of her loving me because, at that time, she couldn’t love me the way I needed her to and I couldn’t give love to her.

 

The parting of ways was vicious, brutal, and in written form. I wrote a letter describing why I no longer wished her to be a part of my life. I called her out on her behavior toward me as if by doing so she’d fall at my feet and beg forgiveness. Maybe, I expected her to do that. What I hoped to accomplish by writing that letter was to instill guilt and shame with my anger and rejection. I slapped her face and walked into the underworld with my eyes closed to her love.

 

I attempted, half-heartedly, to re-engage a relationship with her twice in that time. Neither of those times was I ready to see her as anything but a cold woman who withheld affection if I wasn’t perfect. I expected her to be Demeter, the ever loving mother. I held her to such an impossibly high expectation that anything less was not acceptable to me. And so I slept for years without dreaming in the darkest years of my life.

 

My anger towards her was so venomous to my heart that I plotted her demise in short stories I’d write, a play, a painting, a drawing, and with each creative endeavor, I found nothing. Blank canvases and gray washed depictions of my denied roots, my lost heritage falling behind me in hateful words and actions.

 

I embraced my lover Hades with such completeness that I lost myself in the darkness. I surrendered my heart to injury, accosting my own heart without thought to the consequences because those, too, were unbearable. I moved through the thickness without finding the light of hope within myself. Where I was had no winds to herald my rebirth for, in a way, I died.

 

I became a daughter when I realized through the boy I had placed in my custody, just how powerful the love of that child was in my heart. For every bad choice he made, my heart ached and I cried tears of longing for the connection to my own roots. I, before then, had not understood the sacrifices a parent makes to love a child.

 

I suddenly found the world becoming brighter. A light was dawning, calling me. I could hear the birds telling me to return home. I could see the flowers lined up for inspection against the concrete wall enticing me to return. The smell of my mother’s kitchen haunted my heart. I could feel her reaching out to me. I could feel my shame and guilt that I’d so carefully placed at her feet reminding me that I’d burned that bridge. I could still smell the smoke of that fire I’d set 18 years before.

 

But I ignored the lies I told myself throughout my time in darkness. I set down my pride in a heaped up pile of scrap at the curb of decision. I reminded myself of her smile, her laughter, her conviction when she saw injustice. I changed how I saw her. The winds shifted and I could hear her calling my spirit with her own. I picked up the phone and physically called her.

 

That first call was naked. I stood before her shedding my anger, refusing to give in to my fears of rejection, dropping them to the floor like the rags they were. We bonded by being mothers together. I confessed my darkness to her. I explained the reason I’d buried myself in the world. I discarded my shell and reached out my fragile tendrils seeking a grafting to my family tree. She watered my efforts with careful tentative tears of rejuvenated faith in me.

 

Without anger there was no longer pride or anxiety to hold us apart. For the first time I saw her, not as my mother, but as a woman. I saw her with scars and wounds, some healed, others healing and she was beautiful. I’d forgotten just how lovely she is. I transitioned from plotting her murder to embracing the human woman. I released the winter of my life and embraced the floral scented breezes of spring.

 

She told me, that although painful, the bridge that I’d set ablaze had been extinguished not long after I started it. She waited hopeful, like Demeter, for my return. When I rediscovered the bridge to return to my ancestral lands, I took out my ropes and my trees and I began working on reparations. I started at my side, she started at hers. When we’d reached a point of understanding and completed the walkway towards one another I sobbed with relief and ran the distance between us with cautious steps, careful words, and noticed the bridge had been reinforced with her love.

 

After our reconciliation, I returned to Michigan, my home state where my mother lives with my dad. On her 65th birthday, I sat at her dining table in her welcoming kitchen and I drank Kawphy*, ate homemade blueberry buckle (my great grandmother’s recipe), and loved my mom with such a deep sincerity that I tear up writing about it.

 

After breakfast, she and I went downstairs and onto her patio. She produced the letter I’d written in ancient tongues of a wounded woman/child. I read it and felt ashamed but she wouldn’t allow me to linger on the past. We hugged tightly, cried, and then, together, we lit that letter on fire and let it burn. It was one of the most profound moments of my life.

 

Not a day goes by that we don’t speak, email, or post something on each others Facebook walls. Our relationship has become a key part of my identity. I know that someday I won’t be able to call her, but to me, that makes what I have with her now so valuable and precious that I can’t imagine taking it for granted or discarding it again. My roots and heritage are found in the wisdom and love of my mother. My only regret is that I took so long to remember I love her.

 

Spring returns. Persephone has found Demeter once again. I, the daughter, found my way home and together with my mother, we rejoice in rebirth and reclamation of a woman’s wisdom.

*(Kawphy, in my family is a sacred ritual. It is a time of sharing, conversation, and the exchange of ideas that flow like the warm beverage between familial spirits)

NO MORE

I wrote this for an event on April 5th, 2014 for The Crisis Center of Bristol’s Clothesline Project. The Crisis Center consistently works to educate the community and heal victims and survivors of Domestic Violence and Sexual Assault. WARNING! Because of the nature of this material, it may be triggering to some.

Warrior

Warrior Goddess

I am here to clarify and specify the people I’m attacking.

To call to task the people who tolerate violence distracting

The patriarchal matricide of what it means to be a woman

The homicidal tendencies, rejection of mother’s bosom.

The apathy displayed

at the outspoken woman’s rage

as yet another woman gets shuttled to her grave.

I’m sorry. I apologize. I’m a woman. I was born this way.

I’m sorry that I state my proclamation too loud

while I passionately protect, my sisters in this crowd

from your persistently prejudiced voice that proclaims we’re not permitted

to make decisions about our lives, our histories un-acquitted.

That who we are as women is despicable and dirty

My vagina becomes a battle ground, my body judged unworthy.

I’m sorry that being, my poor addle minded self,

that I don’t understand why I must be put upon a shelf.

That having my future cornered off in a pretty gilded cage

should make my fate far easier, tamp my unfettered rage.

So I become like a caged animal

to be poked with many sticks

by people claiming they know me best

my wants and needs dismissed.

No More.

I’m sorry that my activist actions against you prevent you

from laying a h-a-a-a-and on another dis-empowered female

She who huddled in a corner away from flying fists and vomited words

of your hateful acts of terrorism that were thrown at her with such violence

she vanished

became an invisible statistic.

No More.

I’m sorry that your actions made her into what you demanded.

I’m sorry that your angry words on her your hatred branded.

Maybe next time she’ll react fast enough when you tell her she’s a whore

until that day when she finds her voice,

and whispers the words

“No More.”

I’m sorry that the CLICK CLACK

of the hammer you held tight against her ear;

The gun you bought to protect her

from this world you fear;

was too LOUD for you to hear her screams of protest:

“No More.”

I’m sorry that I can’t lay down and allow you to strip away my being

in hopes that maybe, someday, I’ll be worthy of your seeing.

Instead, I’ll take your shaming and your poisoned disregard.

I’ll stand against your anger, my body battle-scarred.

Because unlike you, I hold the key

to your future immortality

in my womb of possibilities

I’m more than reproductive charity.

I’m telling you.

“No More.”

I apologize for the inconvenience to your misogynistic behavior

that tells me I’m at fault, that criminal is my savior

If I’d never spoken up, HIS life would not be ruined

You speak in “Boys will be boys” and other excuses fluent.

You accuse me of being a wouldn’t, a couldn’t, a shouldn’t, like I’m the one at fault

by being born a woman I gave permission for unwanted assault.

Hear these words:

“No More.”

I apologize for not remaining submissive

while you coerced me into a silencing prison

of remaining without a voice

while you, SIR, made the choice

to release my violator on the unsuspecting world.

And while you sat in judgment of MY actions and MY life

He repeated his offensive on a sister and a wife.

The entire time you gave permission

Forcing me to falter my perdition

By setting him free

and prosecuting me.

“No More!”

I apologize, no more.

I am a woman that won’t concede the fighter’s ring as a victim

of Domestic Violence or Sexual Assault.

I won’t wear the stigma of harlot or weak or unchecked.

I won’t don the robes you give me that are stained with your judgment

against MY character and MY life.

I won’t lay prostate on the canvas and beg forgiveness for a sin I didn’t commit

but HE did.

No. I won’t do that.

“No More!”

I may lean against the ropes and modify my breathing

but don’t think the final bell has rung while I’m still out here swinging

My eyes may be blackened. My lip may be bleeding

My muscles may be ragged, but I’ll still stand here screaming:

“No More!”

I stand here with my fist raised without fear with the scent of victory

dripping off of me like the shadows put on me by those who tried to defeat me,

and lost.

I stand here declaring myself, not only the winner, but a survivor

with a power you can’t take away

and a fearless woman’s voice raised up stating:

“No More!”

I am and I matter.

I am one woman and I count.

I am a woman who will no longer apologize for being who I am meant to be.

And I am not alone.

I am one of a billion names.

I am a woman. I was born this way.

We are women whose light cannot be dimmed.

We are women who hold out our hands with a resilience that can’t be squelched by hatred.

We are women who encourage outrage against this war on our mothers and daughters.

We are women who should no longer apologize for dancing with abandon

to the music of our spirits.

We are women who move our hips, our hands, our feet, our hearts to the rhythm of

“No More. No More.”

We are women relearning to love every part of ourselves;

Embracing and lifting each other up.

We are women who offer our voices as a refuge of strength

and a unified stand declaring,

“NO MORE! NO MORE!”

Raise up your voices with me,

“NO MORE! NO MORE!”

Move your bodies, join me in declaring,

“NO MORE! NO MORE! NO MORE!”

Living Out Loud

Queen of my own Life

Queen of my own Life

We’ve all heard the phrase, “Live your life out loud.” But we’ve also been told to “Keep it down”, “Don’t cause ripples”, “Work hard”, and “That’s just the way it is.” The mixed messages we get while we traverse our lives make it difficult to figure out exactly what we’re supposed to be doing. Parents want us to do this, friends want us to do that, society puts its expectations on us to be productive members. It’s all so confusing.

One of my “gifts” that I learned at a later age that serves me well is to be whom I am with no excuses.  I don’t have to be a stick thin woman. I don’t have to dumb myself down. I don’t have to hide my past or try to be someone I’m not. If I want to wear kitty ears, pirate hats, or super-hero capes when I go out in public, why the heck not? It makes me happy, harms no one, and brings a jolt of the unexpected to a world that lingers in melancholy.

But, how did I get to this point? How did I get “brave” enough to be me?

It happened on accident. “I” snuck up on myself. Most of my life was spent trying to do what I was expected but it never quite fit “me.” I’m loud. I’m bawdy. I love to eat, raise hell, and laugh a LOT. Without arrogance I can tell you I’m wicked smart, have great ideas, and apply my skills in unique and creative ways that don’t always coincide with the expectations of my occupations.

Every job I’ve ever had, with few exceptions, didn’t last long because I just couldn’t stay still long enough. Once I felt I’d mastered whatever it was, I wanted change. Sometimes it was voluntary and sometimes it wasn’t when I left a job. My least favorite positions were those where I wasn’t trained properly but expected to perform circus tricks with information that didn’t apply to the job at hand. My favorite positions were ones where I not only satisfied my creative needs but was allowed to be “a little off-beat.” Being a radio DJ, copy writer, and producing commercials satisfied all of those needs and although my reasons for leaving that position are complicated, I was in the process of moving to Tennessee to take care of my nephew.

When I was very young, I was constantly performing. Plays, jokes, being a mosquito, writing fake cursive on notes that I expected my younger brother to “read.” My Aunt Lizzie used to say that I marched to the beat of a different drummer only my drummer played the tuba. I loved wild clothes and climbing trees. I participated in nearly everything with all of me, unless it meant being in public. I didn’t much like that.

I got lucky enough to find a couple of people that showed me a fascinating truth about myself. Shanna Harris started it. One day she was a gas station attendant, the next moment, after my soul recognized hers and hers mine, we were inseparable. We had long talks, longer walks, and lived in a town that was too small for the both of our wild ways. By wild ways, I mean that we liked to be loud. We liked to be bawdy (me more than her), we liked to live out loud. But, as fates would have it, I moved away to a couple of places before I settled in Show Low, AZ.

At first I was doing a boring office job selling a product I didn’t care about for a ridiculously low salary of 100 bucks every two weeks. Anyway, opportunity knocked when the local radio station was looking for weekend help. I immediately applied.

I became a monkey pushing buttons to make sure shows ran at the times they were supposed to on the station they were supposed to run. I wasn’t good at it at first. In fact, I got reprimanded about a month into it being told either get it right or get out. I buckled down because, dude, I worked at a radio station and how cool was that?

It wasn’t long before they discovered I could write. When they did, I started writing nearly every commercial that came out of the station. When I figured out production, I added that to my skills. When they needed a substitute for the morning show, I stepped up and gave them banter. When they wanted remote talent for broadcasts, I’d either work the studio end or head out to the place they wanted to promote.

When football season came around, I played a game with the announcers. I’d give them a topic before they went out to the field and they’d incorporate that into their broadcast. Let’s say the topic was fish. For every reference to “A whale of a play” or “They look like they’re stacked like sardines in that tackle” they’d get a point. It was a lot of fun.

I made friends. LOTS of them, but my core posse was Carrie, Stephanie, and Bean. We went and did everything together. The more outrageous I got, the more they cheered me on with their own ridiculous hats and jokes. We sang loudly, drank more, and laughed a LOT. They forced me to realize that my oddities were exactly what made me so much fun to be around which in turn made me realize that maybe I wasn’t so bad after all.

So when I say “I” snuck up on myself, I mean it in the sense that once I realized that being me made me happy, once I accepted that who I am is a pretty cool person to be, I was able to explore what I wanted to be and how I wished others to see me.

Yes. I’m eccentric and off-kilter and I don’t always see things the way other people do, but I also realized that my voice is necessary to make changes in the world. Just like you, I doubted I was important. I didn’t believe I was worthy. I didn’t think people would want to hear the voice of a woman who likes rabbit ears in July. But you know what? They do.

People want to hear the truth even when society tells them to be this or do that. They want to see that being unique can be accomplished. They want to know that their own oddities, even when in private, are okay. How do you live out loud? You do what makes you happy in the biggest and best way because that, my friend, is the greatest gift you can give to the world, YOU!