Tag Archives: love

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.

The Witnesses (updated)

To honor Good Friday, (2015) I was asked to write a poem. I do not proclaim a faith, just a belief in love and the goodness of the human beings that walk this plane. The three part poem below is written from three perspectives witnessing the crucifixion. When it is read, it is from three different voices they come. I hope it speaks to your spirit if you’re so inclined.

Verse One: The Observer

I’m not a Christian, but Lord, if I was,

I’d not stand by and watch them offer up applause

For that man they called a criminal for preaching about love

For the one some call Messiah, while others cry Peaceful dove.

I stand here in the crowd as they cheer this brother’s pain

My heart is filled with sorrow, as his beaten body strains

The laughter that I hear from the festive vicious hearts

Breaks something inside of me, tears my faith apart

I want to scream above the crowd, “HEAR!”

In a voice shrill and loud, “ME!”

With my head no longer bowed, “LORD!”

Releasing my own funeral shroud, “I AM NEAR!”

But I am weak, just human. I am nothing compared to them.

But maybe, my kindred spirits, that’s what moves me to condemn

For I love my God with all my heart, and in God’s house I walk

I serve in supplication, I don’t just talk the talk.

I am not a Christian, but Lord, if I ever loved,

I’d heed the wisdom of the dying man, and thank my God above.

Verse Two: The Participant

How dare that man pass his judgement down on me!

Who does he think he is, telling ME how to believe?!

I’ve learned and taught the toe-RAH

I’ve worshipped at the sacred altar

I’ve cantered every prayer

I can recite them without flaw or falter.

Then this mortal man comes along and claims to be

Far more holy than even me?

The Son of God? Oh, reeeeaaaaaaallly!?

I’ve fixed that preachy “Love Thy Neighbor” fellow

I paid my thirty silver to hear him scream in falsetto.

Sometimes the laws I enforce prevent me from doing what’s right

I pass the coins to Roman hands, let them bloody their own hands tonight

This should make my people think twice before leaving our faith

To follow a crazy instigator, that rejects my loving God’s face.

Verse Three: The Intimate

I am hidden in the darkness, afraid to show my face

“Oh Lord, why’d they tell us that Yeshua fell from grace?

You showed me my friend Judas with thirty silver in his fist

Forsake my dear beloved with cold betrayal’s kiss

You let my holy brother be taken

from the garden where we prayed.

You allowed him to be arrested

when you could have let him stay.”

I am hidden in the darkness, afraid they’ll point at me and say

That I was clearly one of his. That they’ll kill me the same way.

“Oh Lord, why have they called for my redeemer to be killed?

When ne’er a drop of anguish from his gentle lips have spilled?

I do not feel you near, Oh God, I’ve lost your loving light

When they took my sweet friend, Yeshua, away in darkest night.

If I weren’t hidden in the darkness, barely safe from Roman harm

I’d scream out my torment, beating my chest to sound alarm.

“Hosanna! Hosanna! I sing to your precious name

Hosanna! Hosanna! My finger points my brother’s shame.

My faith is ever yours, even when I don’t understand.

I mean, you took us through the desert, 40 years we wandered sand

And yet, my Father, I hide here, within this darkened room

I wonder, holy patriarch if his death will also be my doom.”

I am hidden in the darkness, despair my wretched dominion

Oh God! My Loving God! Remove my deserter’s vision.”

Giving up grief

I’ve given up on grief.

It’s too small of a word

To contain the absence I feel 

To cover the sorrow that blooms 

Unexpectedly 

When I make coffee in the morning 

Or taste a muffin

Like you used to make

I’ve given up grief

It’s too small of a space

To hold all that was you

The way you laughed

The scent of your body

Fresh out of the shower

Or sweaty with work

I’ve given up grief

It’s too shallow for a feeling 

That is deeper than I thought

Although I suspected,

Your love holds me buoyant 

In the ocean of our commitment 

Yes, I’ve given up grief

Because the world requires 

The gift of who you were

Through my eyes. 

I can’t hold that when it,

Like you,

Were born to shine even now

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.

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!

Gail 1948-2025

How long will you linger on the pillow where last you lay your head?

What rose will remind me of the scent of your life that has evolved into dead?

What chime will ring out over the earth

That may likely forget your value; your worth?

Will the blushing dawn sing of the mourning you gave

Will the fiery sunset trumpet over your grave?

Will the willows tell your legend for eons to come

Whispering your legend in branches like drums?

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.