Tag Archives: life

The Pitch of Gravity

Gravity quit working

My feet now never touch the ground

It’s as if I’ve fallen for the Red Bull ads

To the earth no longer bound

Their being is confectionery

I am colliding with the bliss

Drawn from still and stationary

To a yearning restless kiss

Absent

I have been absent for quite a while. I’ve set down some of my volunteer work. I’ve spent a lot of time being. Sometimes busy, sometimes not, but primarily I’ve been focusing on building the life I want to live; the one I enjoy and relish so dearly.

In the next month or so, I’ll be picking up my roots that are over five years deep and moving down the road a spell to take care of a human who, at this point, requires stupidvision with a dash of management. It’s scary to think I won’t have my safe haven anymore, but it’s thrilling to explore the world from different perspectives.

This is a big deal in my life, but not in the world. Most people probably won’t even notice my change of address. I will. Most people won’t even think twice about my new living situation. I will. I’ve determined that the risk is worth the outcome. I will do this. It will be good. I’m already happy.

Transition from one phase to another is a challenge, but change is as sure as death and taxes. I’m embracing this new direction with the fervor of devotion to myself.

Thank you for your patience.

Suicidal Hotdog

We went to The Greens for my dear friend Steven’s birthday party.

The we is my friend/client Bob. He was a bit reluctant to go, but he quickly learned that people he’s known forever were in attendance. He and I had pizza, soda, birthday cake, and quite a few laughs.

Steven was absolutely charming as always. I was so glad I got to spend time with him outside of church. I wore the snazzy jacket he made which made people gush, then gasp in disbelief when I told them who made it. I think both of our egos were well stroked.

The reason I mentioned the suicidal hotdog is because of this:

Who thought it was a good idea to make a hotdog beg for you to eat it? Notice his eyebrows. I know it’s a he and probably designed by a man, because:
The weiner is bigger than the bun! Let’s not even talk about the fashionable socks and shoes, okay?
Bob wore the perfect shirt to make this photo happen by pure kismet. It made me giggle something awful. Note the ejaculating mustard bottle in the hotdog’s other hand.
…which entirely makes THIS picture even funnier. What can I say? I have the humor of a 12 year-old boy.
The front of Bob’s shirt also says “Bite Me” which is from a bait shop he went to years ago.

My people were all there. It was delightful fun. The music was quite a mix from several decades. Trivia was to be played later in the evening but Bob and I went back to his house so he could shower and do his evening routine.

I’ve been staying with him since last Thursday morning when Covid hit where he was staying. This has pros and cons, my being here. I miss my solitude, but I love the adventures we’re having. He’s funny, smart (although he commonly talks badly about himself which irritates me), and, like me, has the humor of a 12-year-old. I’m okay with that.

You are so very loved. I am so very loved. Fuck the world’s bullshit. Love is ALWAYS the answer.

Hands of a Creator

“I don’t have the personality to be God.” I stated to nobody in particular. “I just can’t bring myself to allow others to worship their perception of me.”

I have found myself on the top of a pedestal. I’m not really certain when that happened, but when I’ve heard others talk about me, whether to my face or behind my back, I found myself precariously perched on top.

I consider myself a good human, not a good person. A good person isn’t allowed to make mistakes, trash relationships that no longer work, or draw boundaries around what is good for them. A human, on the other hand, is perfektly within their rights to do any, all, or none of those.

I’m embarrassed when people call me an angel. I know how often I roll my eyes or mutter under my breath while I’m doing something for another human who probably can’t do what I can as well. I feel negativity, but I allow it to pass unless it’s harming me or someone I love. I’m emotionally fly by the seat of my pants. I give because I enjoy the feeling I get when I do. But, in spite of that, it’s harder for me to feel joy when doing something for myself (at this time.)

I can’t tell you the last time I laid one of my beloved paintbrushes to a canvas to create. Yes, I’ve been writing which is cathartic in getting my thoughts out, but painting is coloring in the emotions that are overwhelming. It focuses them in a different way than words can. It allows me to express emotions without self-criticism or judgement which I tend to do in words.

When I write, everything has to be in order. Everything has to make sense to myself and for others. Every idea that pops into my head is best written down so I remember what is important to me, what my goals are, and how I’m going to do what makes me happy.

Art, in any of it’s forms, is a way for me to run around emotionally naked. It encourages me to let go of the control I think I need in the written word. With colors, forms, shapes, patterns, etc., I can bring the darkest, the most joyous, the mundane to a life that is visible. It allows me to fight my demons in public without holding onto them any longer. I miss that.

Yet, here I sit typing away as if this is the only way I can be “seen”, when at the beginning of this writing, I talked about the pedestal I’m perched upon. I want to jump off of that pedestal and spread my emotional wings again. The euphoria I feel when I do that is worth it. I’m making time as we speak to allow space for something so crucial to my well being.

I don’t have the personality to be God, but I have the hands of a creator that are longing to spring anew.

Complicated

I am a shepherd without any sheep
I am a reaper who does not reap
I am a mute, your secrets I keep
I am the lullaby to sing you to sleep
I am the shadow that does not creep
I am a leviathan up from the deep
I am the mountain with a rocky face steep
I am the vessel your burdens to heap
I am the tears that no longer weep
I am the life who causes no grief
I am the toddler who grants you no peace
I am the medicine that brings you relief
I am the bearer of your disbelief

Live out loud

Do not wad your spirit up in a crumpled ball to be tucked away or discarded. Spread out your body to relish the wrinkles of wisdom topped off with your star shine luminosity. Smooth back the night to raise the powerful roots that feed your soul with your destiny.

You weren’t meant to shy away from your glory, you were born to glitter wildly, bubble fruitfully, and bloom in magnificence like those before you. There are no boundaries beneath your feet, only your path.

You were meant to be loud; to take up the space stolen from you by those who fear your wealth of experience and wisdom. They use old, crone, bitch, or other words to describe those who embrace their true nature with delighted abandon. Those are words that mean survivor, wise, and assertive. Those words are meant to keep you small, withered, starving for approval. You own their power.

You do not require permission to explode with color, dance joyfully wherever/whenever you please, or to laugh until your eyes leak. You were born for this. I can’t wait to be a wild woman with you!

Hats of many colors

I wear a lot of hats in my work life. Three of them are braided together for maximum service. I am a non-medical caregiver/companion. I am a commissioned lay chaplain. I am a Death Doula.

During the course of my relationship with my clients, I learn their quirks, their wants, needs, and their humor. I get to witness their family dynamics working and sometimes dysfunctional. I see them at their most vulnerable. I bathe them, change soiled clothing, help them maintain mobility, and because of and despite the messiness of aging, I fall in love with them and their lives.

As a lay chaplain, I feel comfortable and confident speaking to them about difficult topics such as death, dying, and how they want/need things to go as the reason for hiring me becomes more intrusive on their physical and therefore spiritual journey. I help them articulate what’s most important to and in their lives. To me, it feels holy.

As a Death Doula, I work in tandem with hospice. I help the families and my clients to understand what is happening, what is likely to happen, and insure the end of life is as smooth and comfortable as possible. I sing to my people. I read to my people. I hold vigil and space in silence. This feels sacred to me.

When my person dies, my love does not. Although I make myself available, families often go the way of the winds after my purpose with their loved ones has been fulfilled. The anchor has been lost and they drift away into their new normal. It’s not my favorite part of what I do, but I understand that vulnerability is not comfortable and I’ve witnessed them being so.

This past week I’ve lost two people I loved, cherished, and cared for. I’m currently serving a third. It’s hard. It hurts. It’s living and loving grief in a complex respect and surrender. I don’t have all the answers but I’m good at what I do.

As an accused angel in a meat suit, I will continue to serve, adapt, grow, learn, and embrace my own inevitable death because that breathes life into my soul. This is my happiness and my calling. It is my honor to walk my people home.

Hurricane Gale

I honestly feel like I am the eye of the hurricane 🌀.

No matter what happens around me, it’s going to be how it is.

I have control, such as it is, over my reactions even with big emotions.

I feel centered and balanced.

I’m shifting with the currents, adjusting my sails, allowing the journey to reveal itself as it comes.

I am calm.

This is my peace.

Deconstruction

At twenty-one I planned to die,

with a beer in one hand while getting high.

Nobody could see me, I didn’t exist

I screamed myself hoarse

while in their midst

Ironically, I didn’t tell

the secrets I had borne in hell

Imploding shrapnel from darkest places

Repulsed by misleading “loving” embraces

As I grew older, I refused my name

Pushing anger towards familial blame

I gave away my power

before it could be taken

If someone actually saw me,

they’d surely be mistaken

I never did because I knew I never could

It didn’t matter the effort

no matter how good.

I believed pain was love

because that’s what I was shown

Throughout my childhood

into the adult-self grown

I was Destructive in the sense that I had to tear down who I thought I was, who I believed myself to be. I had to dismantle the neglect, anger, bitterness, and apathy that were hidden under the guise of Love. Some of the wounds still ran blood. Some of them still had the knife protruding from my body. I walked around a victim, convinced I would cease to exist one day and that event would go unnoticed, under-appreciated, and quickly forgotten.

I was lied to, given gossip about my unworthiness for breakfast. I was taught values: The value of my vagina, the worthlessness of being barren, that I deserved wrath and disdain because, after all, I was the one insane.

I was force fed my inferiority until i vomited the parrot back to those whom despised the thought of me. The people who used every flicker of my light to read and implement my oppression. I allowed it, encouraged it because they lied love in the guise of vulnerability.

Despite all of that, I’ve broken that cycle. I know I am worthy of love. I know I am loved. I know I am kind, compassionate, loving, giving, helpful, wickedly smart, emotionally intelligent, with the sense of humor of a 12-year old boy who relishes bad jokes, fart jokes, dad jokes, irreverent and dark jokes.

I have accomplished more in the last five years because I believe in myself, my power, my skill, my experience, and my North Star; my loving heart. And best of all, I have a cheerleading band of friends who both keep me grounded and celebrate my successes in flights of fancy.

What a fantastic journey I have forged from the ashes of my youth. Nourishing the needs of my soul/spirit has been the best present I’ve ever given to myself. It leaks into the world like a floodlight of hope. Even better than that? I know it’s rightfully mine.

Remind Me

I’ll kiss you good night 

Holding you tightly in my heart;

But only if you’ll return.

In the dawning hours,

Brighten the sky

Like you did upon entering a room

At midday remind me

Again of your voice

As a bird lingering in a nearby tree. 

At supper, with the table set,

Join me as the clinking clatter

Of silverware and glasses 

Savoring the living moment.

And at dusk, as clouds draw dark,

Cleanse me with your tears

Shed as fluid reminders

That my love was not in vain

But returned tenfold even still.