Tag Archives: being human

I See You

Kaleidoscope_13I see you. You are not invisible to me. When I look at you, you wear no clothes. You wear no physical form. There is a ball around your body that lights up when you’re around people you like and dims when you’re not fond of them. The ball has colors and patterns that are spectacularly blended to me. I see you.

You’re a kaleidoscope of vivid colors that ebb and flow depending on how you move the liquid essence that you float in unwittingly. Where there is pain, I see the darkness. Where there is love, I see the light. Where you reside is usually a central color that tells me everything I need to know about you. I am a voyeur of sorts but not the creepy kind. I will not jump from your closet unexpectedly one night. I will meet you on the terms you’ve established. Because I can feel your intent.

I’m sorry if you feel I’ve invaded your privacy. I don’t know how to turn it off. I don’t really don’t want to because it’s served me so well. It’s proven invaluable to me to seek others of the light. It’s proven invaluable to me when I know I can’t trust a person because they are too consumed by material things to know they’re spiritual beings. It’s guided me effectively to incredible experiences through people with knowledge so deeply profound that I sometimes weep with gratefulness while others cause me deep caution.

It’s a feeling of authentic appreciation of identity that can only bloom with the watering of confidence when I see people that fit into their spirits; That “get it”. When I see someone working actively to grow into their spirits, I can forgive almost anything they do because I witness the evolution of color as if a perfect painting were in the works and I get to watch the brushstrokes fall on the canvas. It’s glorious to see. My gift allows me the privilege without effort.

There are also people who are not exactly dark and not exactly light. They are in a flux between worlds. The material world grabs their ankles and wrists tugging them away from their destiny. Their spirit self does a watoosie trying to find footing, trying to fill in the blanks. There are some that stand in this disarray and cry out that they don’t know who they are or that they don’t know what they’re doing. Nobody knows for sure what we’re doing. We just come up with a plan and see how it pans out. If we’re lucky, we have guides to show us the way out. I am one of those guides but I don’t know everything.

It is increasingly difficult when I feel as if I am carrying/dragging them towards the light. They start off saying, “Oh yes! I really want to do something different and I really like your ideas. Let’s go on this journey together.” I comply and we have long talks deep into the night. The kind that feels like it is the most important conversation I’ll ever have. For that moment in time that glimpse into the moonlight or the daylight it truly is. The intensity can’t be matched because it is so relevant. It is crucially real. But they fall back asleep and forget that we’d every spoken the conversation. With some, that shine so brightly but fear themselves, I keep trying to wake them up because I believe they need to be; because they said they wanted to be.

I don’t say anything to people who are dark. I don’t squeal with delight when I see them. Their wounds run far too deep for me to do anything other than shine a light at the end of their tunnel and coax them from sleep if they’re ready. There have been times when words came out of my mouth that weren’t mine but were intended for a particular person. Just like that, it’s as if a small miracle, sometimes large, happens but it isn’t mine. That’s when my light can reach into that dark place and help bring them home to the light where they belong. Those are the people that shoot past me like a rocket grinning from ear to ear on the tides of self-discovery and I cherish each one that finds that place. I do not gift them because it’s already theirs as it is yours. I may just nudge the light a tad to the right so they can see they’re really okay.

But I can’t carry them. I can’t wake them up. I can’t do that. I can’t pick someone up and force them to embrace their colors. It is ALWAYS the individual choices that color their spirits. It is ALWAYS their responsibility. I learned this and other rules of engagement when watching the masterpieces I encounter.

I can’t tell people what color they will become but I can tell them what color I see. The colors don’t have traits as much as they have emotions attached to them. When I see the colors and I really like them, I have to wait. I can’t immediately bond with them because rarely, but it does happen, they are wearing someone else’s colors. Like maybe they had a bad interaction with someone so it clouds their spirit or they’ve just received great news and are wearing that instead of their normal vestments. It’s the wolf in sheep’s clothing that causes me to ease my steps.

The physical being, the way you wish people to see you comes second. When I see someone that matches their physical self with their spirit self, it’s a feeling of home. It’s a feeling of such personal integrity, I think, “YOU! You’re there!” Sometimes it surprises me so much to find an authentic person that I actually say that out loud. There are many people who come close to matching but, it’s like they choose the wrong pair of socks or the wrong shade of happy. It’s just enough off for me to recognize that they’re missing parts of themselves or aren’t aware they are. It is my experience that it’s typically the latter.

The physical being does matter. I don’t wish you to have the wrong impression. I do see it, but not until I’ve peered through the spirit. When I tell someone that they are beautiful, I see them as I’ve described to you. I wish I could paint each person so they could see their beauty too. As if, if I could create them on canvas, they might appreciate their own divinity that seems apparent to me. But instead I’ll follow the advice of my kind Uncle Les who said, “Mare, whatever you do, keep doing it. The world needs more of it.” So it is written, so it is done.

Lost Sunday

Go away.
He sat in the back seat using his hands as a rosary
praying to holy mother Rosemary his sin not be discovered.
The violation of my air space undetected by his stealth
suddenly had air raid sirens blaring loudly,

“HOW DARE YOU?!” upon my radar screen
while I drove away and prayed the guards were adept.

When I’m Alone

The Clipper Ship Blue Jacket On Choppy SeasAm I Schrodinger’s cat locked in a coffin that I can’t see?

Am I my own imagination come to life or who others want to see?

Am I an earthquake that shakes the foundation of your beliefs?

Am I the whirlwind that’s met with cautious alacrity?

Am I so enigmatic I am hidden even from myself?

Am I a magician’s assistant that performs with infuriating stealth?

Who am I when there’s nobody around to witness me?

Am I just a wanderer piloting my ship on the popped blue collar sea?

I really dig

I really dig that when I open up my blog reader

I find people-y readers lurking about, liking this or that.

I really dig that when I peer back through the shop window

the readers grunt, groan, lust, hug, love and hate like I do.

I really dig that when I peer through the looking glass

I don’t find my readers slumped sleeping in side-chairs.

I really dig that they poke fingers to keys while:

drinking coffee

popping pills

drinking bourbon

honoring artists

dancing with desires for origami people on paper they will print.

I really dig that the people I don’t know by face

stare back at me as we travel, passing on our reader’s train.

I really dig when we arrive at the same destination of personal truth.

Because that’s when the shit gets real.

Bone Filled Closets

“The problem with people is that we’re looking at everyone’s front door from our bone filled closets.” –Crystal Beeler

We show the world the prettiest of packages. We wear the nicest clothes we can afford, drive the best car we can, work at a job where we’re considered “A nice person,” hang out with our friends who think we’re hilarious/serious/odd/insert-other-attribute-here, and we still can’t see ourselves honestly. We pull the wool over our own eyes that we’re not as good as others. We hoodwink ourselves into believing we’re bad at everything and at times ponder why we’re even accepted any place at all.

But we reinforce this belief by telling each other about our humanity through platitudes of: “Everyone makes mistakes,” “Don’t worry, it will get better,” “You’re fine/okay,” or one of my favorites, “Pray that God forgives you,” shows me that we all want to be okay; Be considered okay. But hearing it from the outside while we stand in the midst of our failures can do the complete opposite of what we need to do for ourselves.

The truth is, we already have all the tools we need to be perfectly us. We are already loved. We are already beloved. We are already the perfect version of our collective experiences. When you can accept that, the world is ready for you to explore it with the awe and wonder of your spirit that isn’t linked to the physical plane but by your memories and experiences. A collective of the tried and true and the not such a great ideas mingled into the spicy delicious you.

But how do you get over the fear that others are seeing you as you see yourself? How do you look in the mirror with confidence that you have talents unique to you? How can you say that you’re less than anyone else when you are born into the right of love?

Take off the front door. Be the human you are without fear because it’s who you are. You are, with all your lumpy bumpy bits, amazing. On the physical sense (and yes this assumes), your heart is beating, your lungs are working, your kidneys are doing their thing, your bowels, your stomach, your entire blood vessel system are all working and you don’t have to think about any of it. You can’t run a mile? That’s okay because you can pick up a grain of rice between your toes. You can’t lift 100 pounds? That’s okay because you can read an entire book in a day.

Replace those negative thoughts with the things you CAN do even if they’re not remotely related. Look on yourself with the same compassion you’d show a friend who stripped off their pretty package and had a meltdown in the grocery store. See yourself as a child who only occasionally needs correcting by your loving attention. Give yourself tenderness by taking time to recharge/renew/revive yourself.

There is no shame in taking care of yourself. People will come and go in your lifetime which means that you are the ultimate expert on you. You’re the only one that is around you 24/7/365. You are the only one who know your every thought, every emotion, every goal, every dream, every aspiration, and what makes your truly happy. I repeat, there is no shame in taking care of yourself.

Comparing yourself to others is judging yourself in the harshest of lights. There is no room for error when you’re trying to measure up to someone else. However, if you realize that you are your only competitor for your life and spirit, it really is empowering to know that you can set the goals YOU need to feel successful.

Search deeply into your hidden secrets without fear. You already know what they are. They aren’t a surprise to you. You lived them. You experienced them. You learned from them. Throw them around the room as if you were looking for your favorite toy or outfit that somehow got buried under years of denial, regrets, self-loathing, shame, guilt, and other harmful self-incriminating tactics you’ve used against yourself to declare an invalid self-worth.

Just like as if you were doing a spring cleaning in your house, do so with the negative. You can keep the lessons you’ve learned, but don’t cherish that time you hit your brother over the head with a dictionary. Let it go. If we hold onto the childish mistakes of our past, we’re likely to hold onto the inexperienced or ignorant issues of our adulthood. This isn’t self-care, this is self-sabotage. You’re worth more than that.

By allowing yourself your humanity, you’re giving the gift of yourself to others in a way that can’t be duplicated. Embrace yourself with the knowledge that your imperfections, quirks, obsessions, snarkiness, anger, kindness, and actions are a reflection of the spirit of your humanity.

Give yourself the greatest gift you can give to yourself, love. Everything you are is utterly fantastic. Even the worst thing you’ve ever done is not the definition of you but a measure of how far you’ve come. Put down the baseball bat you’ve been beating yourself with and let those cuts, scars, and bruises heal. When you reach for that self-abuse, remember that a loving person would never harm you. You ARE that loving person. I don’t even know you and I can tell you this for a fact.

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)

Retrieve the Wild Woman

A common missing soul link

“Once, when you thought no one was looking, I saw you open your heart so wide that the earth fell in. Once, when you thought no one was listening, I heard you sigh so deep that the oceans roared with support. Once, when you thought no one was around, every atom in this universe rushed forward to embrace you. Again. Thank you for existing so intensely.” –Sera Beak

When we are young girls, we’re told we can be anything or anyone we want to be. We’re encouraged to explore the world, to be inquisitive, to engage with wonder the nouns we’re exposed to every day. But then we hit the “tweens” the rules change dramatically. We’re told that we can no longer do this or we can’t do that. We’re chastised for being who we were told we could be, who we are. We’re told to keep our voices down, not only by the older women of our clans but by our peers and by society. We’re told that we are expected to dress this way or behave that way because after all, who wants a wild woman? Behave yourself, ladies. It’s about to get bumpy.

When we reach the age of dating, the rules shift again as we learn how to act around the alien species that we remember swimming with bare chested down at the swimming hole for endless summers past. But at this point, we’re expected to catch his attention with guile and grace that awkward teenagers don’t possess. We’re taught that by watching society, media, and our familial matriarchs we should already know these things. Even when we seek guidance from our peers, we’re mocked for not understanding how things work even though, sincerely, the other girls don’t know either.

We can no longer play in puddles even if it’s our deepest desire to do so because girls just don’t do that. We can’t strip off our shoes and socks and go wading into the murky depths squishing the untamed silt between our toes. We can’t jump into the gathered waters to cause a gratifying splash because that’s unladylike. We become tamed and complacent in our lives because that’s what we’re supposed to do. We’re coerced, instead, to step around the puddles and even to avoid them while looking regretfully at the unmarred reflection of what could be flying water.

Then the age of marriage, children, relationship issues, and responsibilities inundate our thoughts and who we were fades into a small bubble within our spirit that is nor more noticed than our own shadow. Meanwhile, our Wild Woman just floats along behind waiting, staring longingly at those mud puddles, swimming holes, and endless hours of laying in the grass staring at the clouds drifting by in the blue. It’s that Wild Woman, that didn’t have boundaries for exploration, inquiry, and engaging the world as our adult selves are required to have. It is the part of us that’s starving to be noticed, begging to be reintegrated into our daily lives.

I’m challenging you to jump in that mud puddle. I’m challenging you to make the ripples. I’m asking you to take the time to watch the skies. I’m asking you to be a rebel, a Wild Woman. I can hear the brakes in your mind going off. I can hear the thoughts of “But what will other people think?” Let me tell you why what “they” think doesn’t matter.

A study done by the National Science Foundation claims that people have on average 50, 000 plus thoughts a day. This means that even if someone thought about us ten times in one day, it’s only 0.02% of their overall daily thoughts. That’s a pretty powerful.

One way to understand this statistic is the more we think and worry about what other people think about us, the less time we have to think for ourselves, to follow our own path, to speak about what matters and is valued by our spirits. To embrace our inner Wild Woman as a place of solace and contentment, liberty and freedom of our wonderful souls is where personal contentment can be found. But that sounds pretty selfish and we’re supposed to be self-sacrificing, right?

Let’s approach it a different way. You love the color blue, but everyone else claims that they love the color green. When you can no longer pretend that you love the color green you tentatively reach out to those closest to you and you say, “I love the color blue more than green.” Some may reject you outright because that’s just not how it’s done; EVERY one MUST love green. But then, there may also be some of like mind that will say, “I too love blue.” And another creature may hover around your groups saying, “I don’t like either of those colors at all. I love yellow more than any other.”

Standing up for what you believe is right is not how a lady should behave, right? That’s not a Wild Woman practice, right? Oh, but it is. It’s saying that you’re not content with the way you or your fellow Wild Women are being treated. It’s standing up and saying, “I love blue, not green.” It’s demanding that your opinions, thoughts, and beliefs hold water like that splashy fun mud puddle. And you know what? You’ve jumped into the middle of that puddle by valuing your own opinion, by finding worth in what works for you. Pretty awesome, right?

Do you remember laying on your back in the green grass, staring up at the clouds as the sun warmed your skin? If you haven’t had the pleasure of this activity, I highly recommend it. And if you haven’t, imagine what it would feel like. The sounds of the breeze rolling through the trees as they wave at you with life flooding their branches. Inhale the scent of the earth and feel it filling your body until you’ll nearly burst. Can you hear the birds singing you a lullaby of complete contentment because they already know they’re birds? Can you see the clouds gliding the sky with their shifting watercolor painted beauty? Close your eyes and ingratiate yourself to the feeling of just being or keep staring up to the heavens filling your spirit with life.

So what do these simple activities have to do with retrieving your Wild Woman? How can these possibly make your life easier or happier?

When you allow yourself to embrace your own personal likes, dislikes, opinions, ideas, thoughts, you’re allowing yourself to tap into the Wild Woman soul. When you acknowledge to yourself, as used in the example, that you love the color blue more than green, you’re honoring yourself. You’re honoring the Wild Woman. The one your ancestral tribes glorified with natural movement dances around a fire while howling at the moon with the complete understanding that they were women and they had power.

When you jump into the puddle and publicly declare that you love blue more than you love green, you send a ripple of rebellion, a whisper of “What if…?” a passionate plea for others to embrace what and who they love as well. You’re giving permission, not only to yourself, but to other Wild Women hidden in the confines of “Don’t do that.” When you take off your shoes and socks and dip that toe back into the puddles of things that matter, you’re shaking off the oppressive ideals of who you are supposed to be and can then allow your heart to open so wide that the whole earth falls in.

When you take time to contemplate, feel, surround yourself with beauty, as in laying in the grass watching clouds, you’re cherishing the most valuable person you know, yourself. You’re giving yourself permission to rest. The dishes will be there when you get done. The bills will still be awaiting your check and stamp. But making time to just be who you are with no labels is becoming that Wild Woman that stands up in a banana skirt and declares she loves blue more than green. It entwines your passions and desires into a solid form that can be nibbled upon or swallowed whole. When you remember to make time your own, you become the ruler of your own oceans whether those oceans be blood, sweat, or tears; you matter.

The Universe is bidding you an invitation to glorify you in your natural state of being a Wild Woman. Be still and listen. Do you hear that in the wind? Do you see that in the sun or moon or stars or lake or leaves? It’s everywhere and it’s calling for you to be who you are. It’s beckoning for you to jump into those puddles, cause the ripples, stare at the sky and dream, because YOU are worth pulling in those gifts that float around you like confetti, bring them home, you Wild Woman you!

 

The statistic was found in an article found at: https://medium.com/life-hacking-2/46bf86584c95