The Walk

One foot in front of the other, that's what they say.  Without destination, without regard for the end- just treading the path.  Step, breathe, walk.  One foot in front of the other.

But that itself isn't enough.  We need more.  We need to enjoy the journey.  Revel in being lost, take in the view, soak it all in.  To truly walk, to truly be on the path, we have to let go of the walking and tap into being.

They say they're simple steps, much like the instructions for walking.  Notice the body as it moves- the muscles tensing and releasing, the bones holding us up, the heart pumping, the lungs pulling and pushing air, the swing of the arms and sway of the hips.  Go inside.

Notice the air around you- the scent, the temperature, the density.  Stop and smell the roses, feel he air, listen to the birdsong.  Bring the attention and focus back to the simple cues.  Notice when the mind has drifted and bring it back.

Notice the change- whether internal of external- it makes no difference.  Simply becoming aware of it when it happens is what opens the door to a greater understanding,  increased awareness, different steps.

The destination doesn't matter because there is no destination.  You can't follow instructions.  You can't plan it out.  You just have to walk.
                                                                                                                                                                    

Grief Follows

I recently saw a horror movie called "It Follows".  It's an interesting premise- a sexually transmitted demon (you'll never look at STDs the same way) terrorizes a young girl after an ill-advised tryst with a guy she doesn't know all that well.  The demon can only catch her (and kill her) if she stops moving- so long as she keeps going it moves slowly enough that it can't get her.  If/when it does, she's dead.  Game over.

This seems to work the same way.  When I'm moving- working, stressing about the minute details of reality, keeping up with the demands of daily life- I'm ok.  Genuinely ok.  Functional, professional, responsible.  I keep moving and I'm fine.

But when I stop- when life quiets down, when the world stops moving and I have space to think and feel- I'm caught.  The grief which is always just a couple steps behind me catches up.

It happens in unexpected ways- the fact that the last time I was here I was worrying about getting home.  Home.  Something I no longer have.   A stable base replaced by a strange apartment.

The memory of the way he used to play with my hands- marveling at their size and how small they felt in his.  The feel of him playing with my hands- holding me, laughing with me, loving me.

The picture hidden in that pile of books I can't find a place for.

Ten years of memories.  Ten years of sights, sounds and feelings that go so deep I feel them in my bones.  Deeper than conscious thought.  Deeper than rational timelines and facts- this happened.  So deep that when I get on the mat and dig into my hip I'm only starting to scratch the surface.

And I know- I KNOW- this is normal.  This is how it works.  It's gonna come up, I'm gonna be devastated.  And then, like everything in life, it will pass.  I will breathe again.  Life will move again. I'm not dead, it's not game over- I keep moving.  Until the next time it catches me.  The next time.

I Am The One I've Been Waiting For

What magic is there when we- ourselves- come to represent all that we need in life.  When we answer our own prayers.  When we manifest for ourselves what we so desperately need in life.  Wouldn't that be a miracle?

New Look

When we look in the mirror, what do we see?  Is it a reflection?  An honest, clear vision of what is?  Or is just reflecting ideas... Mirages.  Something that looks real enough, if we want to believe in it, but isn't actually there?  I wonder...

A friend of mine recently said that a new haircut and wardrobe wasn't going to change anything.  That whatever I might change was only skin deep.  He's got a point.

But wouldn't it be nice if it was more than that?  If my new outside was really just matching the changes on the inside- outward signs of what was deeper beneath the surface?  I'd like to think so...

The Witches' Hut

There was no hut, really.  Maybe there used to be, or maybe it was just a story- the local folklore built it up over the years.  Something like that.  Whatever it may have or may have not been in the past doesn't really matter to the story- but suffice it to say it was place people hung out at.  The first time I went there there was nothing but the outline of a house marked by a few stones dug into the ground with some logs they'd dragged into arranged in a loose semi-circle around the bonfire.  That's what people do when there's nothing else to do: they make bonfires and hang out in the woods.

Doesn't mean it wasn't a thing, though.  Hanging out at the witches' hut, meeting up at the witches' hut, party on Friday at the witches' hut- these were a part of life.  And there was something to that, I realize.  Being the kids who hung out at the witches' hut,  Part of our identity in some way.  Certainly nothing I though about or recognized at the time, but there was something to that.

There were some great stories, too.  The time Eddie got so shit-faced he tried to make out with the birch tree.  The epic showdown between Ben and the log that scratched him which he proceeded to hack to pieces with his hatchet until it caught in the wood and he started cursing a blue streak at the new injury.  But my favorite by far was the monster.

Of course I don't believe in monsters anymore than I believe in witches.  I like horror movies and I can't get enough of demonic enemies but when it comes to real life that stuff ends when you leave the movie theater.  Or so I thought, until that night.

I was walking to the witches' hut, of course.  It was particularly dark- dark moon or new moon or something like that.  Not a light in the sky, just my cell phone.  It wasn't scary, though- I could walk there with my eyes closed and not miss  step.  But I heard something behind me.

Thinking it was Eddie or Ben or maybe Sarah I turned around, but nothing.  I waited for a sec, just to see.  Nobody came.  So I kept walking.

Then the breathing- like somebody barely able to breath through really stuffed up nostrils, like when you got a really bad cold and it takes effort just to inhale.  And something else, too.  A kind-of guttural 'uh' sound.  Nothing too overt, just there, just behind me.

Now I knew that somebody was messing with me.  Eddie and I were going to a midnight showing later and he must've been practicing.  I knew what to do- I hopped off the trail to the left to go around the back, past the main clearing and in through the overgrown passage.  It was my fail safe if somebody was was following that shouldn't have been following- be a druggie looking to rob me or just some asshole looking to sneak up.  I even started laughing thinking about the sound Eddie would make when he took a gut full of brick.

I rounded the large tree, pulled the rope I'd set up there and let the brick fly.  I heard it release and then I heard the sound I'd been looking for- direct hit, no doubt about it.  I turned around ready to laugh my ass off and stopped dead- nothing.  No one there, no collapsed form on the ground, no Eddie holding his gut and cursing- nothing.

I wasn't freaked out.  I wasn't.  You'd think I woulda been but I wasn't- just figured it was me making shit up in my own head or something.  Like real life was too boring without playing a trick on myself.  I couldn't organize it- where that sound had come from and why I was so sure I'd heard the brick hit.  But whatever- the mind plays tricks on you, that's what they say.

And I could already seen the blaze from the bonfire so I kept going, no worse for wear, just kinda puzzled, really.  Until Eddie teared into the clearing a couple of minutes later.

Now Eddie doesn't believe in anything- anything.  And he is NOT the kind of guy that gets spooked.  That's why he sometimes goes overboard on the practical jokes- he legit doesn't get why it might be too far.  But when he came running full tilt into that clearing looking like he'd seen a ghost I was worried.  And when he described hearing that same sound- like somebody breathing who couldn't really breath- I damned near shit myself.

Now, he claims that it tried to grab him- that he felt claws or something.  I think he might've just said that last part because Sarah was already all over him, saying she was scarred and so worried for him.  I kept waiting to see a knowing grin or something- some indication that he was doing it to get laid.  But he never let up- just spent the whole damned night staring into the fire looking somebody sucked the color out of his body.  He didn't even want any beer- Eddie always wants beer.  He wants beer when he'd in the middle of drinking it.  But he just sat there with the bottle in hand, staring into the fire like his life depended on it.

We didn't leave till the sun came up, and honestly I was ok with that.  If Eddie was spooked, I was spooked.  No arguing with that.  And when they cut down all those tress and started doing construction on another housing development I don't even think he was all that disappointed- he never felt like hanging out there anymore, anyway.  He said it was because it was lame and we were stupid for doing the same damned thing every Friday night.  But I knew, even though he'd swear on his mother it wasn't.  I knew it was because of the monster.

Acceptance

This morning I felt myself changed.  Lighter, stronger, firmly ok in spite of everything.  I know I can't count on this- things could change at any moment.  But in this moment, the only one that's real, I'm fine.

My breath is easy, my brow loose, my body rests without holding onto anything.

My mind shifts focus slowly, like a light breeze.  No pressure, no fear, no resistance.  Thoughts, images and memories come and go.  I can accept and let go without fighting.  Easy.

It's the thing we're always chasing- that ability, that moment, that epiphany.  Seeing the world changing around you and standing perfectly still in the middle of it.  But like all the things we so desperately seek it only comes in the quiet calm.  When we stop seeking and just are.

And for this moment, just this one moment, I am.  And no matter what happens next I know that I can be.

Calm

Traveling through a densely wooded Forrest- so smells I can't distinguish them.  Some are dense and warm.  Others are light and cool.  Some remind me of comfort, home.  Others speak of danger.  I am lost in the sea of them, carried on the gentle sway of scent.

Reality

I haven't lived in an apartment since I was in my 20's and I admit, I kind-of thought I outgrew it.  My future held  large homes with yards that needed maintenance and neighbors taking their kids to soccer practice- not a downstairs neighbor screaming at an imaginary enemy or a broken radiator.  I thought I'd moved past the cheap Ikea dresser that takes hours to put together (not to mention a lot of cursing.)  I was beyond eating left over pizza for days because I didn't have any money left to do legitimate grocery shopping until my next paycheck.  I was grown-up, secure, home.

And yet, here I am- broke once again, asking my friends to help me schlep all of my belongings up old, creaky stairs and trying to remind myself that i'm strong enough to face it all again.  I've been saying throughout this entire process that this is the hardest thing I've ever done and facing reality dead-on hasn't done anything other than make that statement more true.

But what I try to remind myself of, what i'm trying to believe in every cell, every membrane, is that this is the testing ground of the soul.  This is the make or break time that defines my character.  This is the lesson that stands out above all others, and which serves me more than any of the others.  This is the thing that I can talk about on the other side of saying "if I could get through that, I can get through anything."

I am made of tougher stuff than what I am facing down right now.  This will not break me- this is how i will break through.

Dark Moon

They say that getting lost is the best way to find yourself.  that when you emerge from the dense woods you are a changed person- better, stronger, more skilled and able to face down bigger and more frightening obstacles without breaking a sweat.  But from the middle of the forest the woods look rather dark and frightening and you can't help but want to turn back every other second.

But when you're lost you can't turn back- the past no longer exists as a path you can travel, there are no breadcrumbs now.  The only way out is through.

That's where I am.  In the dark, remembering how easy life used to be, and praying I have the mettle to make it out of the forest alive.

Friends

We emptied two full rooms and then some.  We filled a large truck and then some.  We lugged all of it up three flights of stairs- long, hard stairs.  And we did it all in less time that I could have ever imagined in my wildest dreams.

I'm still in shock, on quite a lot of levels.  It's going to take a long time to process everything that has happened, and even longer to try to figure out what comes next.  But I do know this: my friends are absolutely amazing.

Pomegranate

Knowing that you don't know.  It's a thing.  It's a thing that's been a theme for me a lot lately.  And like most of these concepts- the simple-sounding but ultimately soul-shaking ones- it's easy to understand on the surface level.

But what it means now, in the midst of my entire life changing with me as the catalyst, is something much deeper.  It means that I can't simply say that I got it wrong, that I held onto the wrong belief and then move onto another.  It means that I have to get comfortable with the fact that no belief- not one single one- is really right.

Because there's no such thing as right.  There's only right for right now.  And those beliefs I have to let go of now- they were just as right for me back then as my new beliefs are now.  But even these will have to change eventually.

It's the idea of the cycle- the constantly changing flow of things.  It's not right or wrong- it's holding on and letting go.  "The necessity of loss."  That was the phrase that stuck in my mind today.  The way that we have to learn to let go, because holding onto anything too tightly will get you in trouble.  That whole non attachment thing.   Like I said, really easy on the surface, really hard in practice.

So I can't just let go of this belief, I can't just say this doesn't serve me anymore and move on.  I have to get comfortable being in between, being in the unknowing, being in the lost.  Because whatever I grasp onto next will ultimately prove just as destined to change.

Let

I went to a witch today, in the sacred space the women share.  I felt its power as soon as I neared, I always do.  The same quiet consideration for my presence, the same welcoming embrace of acknowledgement.  The space envelops all who enter with pure heart, as it was made to.

I made a seat for myself and waited.  For what, I did not know.  But I did not need to.  I have been healed, hallowed, and held in this space.  I have been made to light up the dark parts of myself and to give them love.  I have been led through the most frightening moments of my story and I been taught to embrace them with the same unconditional regard a mother gives her child.  Whatever will happen here is sacred.  Whatever I encounter, I trust.

I closed my eyes and breathed the way I've been taught to, letting the air fill up my belly and spread my ribs wide.  Letting my body settle into the arms of the earth.  Letting my mind quiet in the stillness of such magick.

I heard her soft steps behind me and waited.  For instruction, for a story, for whatever would come.  I smelled the familiar scent of the herbs, heard the flick of the light for the candles, welcomed all the senses in and in.  And then I felt two smooth wands being placed into my open hands.  I knew what they were, my mind labeled them.  But to me they felt like heavy battle axes- tools to face down something big.

Being in the middle of my grief I thought I knew what they were for- we were going to fight, we were going to do battle.  We were going to go deep into the darkness and face whatever was lurking there.  My breath faltered, tears biting against the backs of my eyelids.  It's a habit, really.  It's a pattern that hasn't been broken up yet.

But what came next wasn't instruction or guidance.  It wasn't a story or a song.  It was the gentlest touch of the most healing hands.  It was the loving caress of a wise woman.  It was the beginning of a journey within- one I had not taken before.

I let myself go to it, trusting with every cell, every breath, every movement.  Trusting the tweaks and pushes, the gentle pulls, the loose shakes.  Trusting the guided rolls, the reminding nudges.  Trusting the process, and the woman leading me through it.

My mind wandered, it always does.  To my past still pulling at the backs of my eyes, threatening another flood of tears.  To my future so bright but frightening- having to take my own steps, to trust my own forged path, to allow the mistakes without fearing them.  And to right now, embraced in a loving touch so  powerful and wholehearted that I erupt with a feeling I did not expect: guilt.

I feel guilty in the presence of such love, I feel unworthy of so much compassion, I feel undeserving of such a complete offering.  My mind lists the reasons- I have wronged, I have hurt, I have injured.  I  have broken a family that was happy and whole before I left.  I have given up something real and tangible for a dream of something much greater- one I have only glimpsed.  I do not deserve this, I cannot accept it- reserve this kind of love for someone other than me.

The moments in which we practice self hatred are so varied and insidious.

But my heart can hear past the babble of my mind and the quiet roar fills me: just let.  So I do: I let.

And I am filled, and I am emptied.  I am rolled and I am stilled.  I am gently, so gently, loved.  And I let.

And in the quiet of the aftermath, when I am nothing more than my bones and veins and muscles, when my mind and madness have left me again- I hear her soft words.  These are wise words, I know.  I welcome them with all of me, I offer them space to take hold, to implant.  I open to them and hope that they will guide me through the storms ahead.

She gives me one warning: do not judge.  Do not tell stories.  Do not organize or categorize or try to make sense of it- which my conscious thoughts are already trying to do: forming hypotheses and theories of meaning and importance.  Do not do these things, she tells me.  I cannot know yet, I cannot hold yet, I cannot use these things as new patterns, new beliefs, new things to carry me forward.  I must walk on my own.

So I try to do as I am told, I try to place one foot in front of the other without any assumptions of where I'm going or why.  I try to catch myself when I start down yet another vision, another fantasy, another self-important tale.  I go forward without knowing: trusting that, loving that.  And I let.

Peace

The grass was cool and damp, too damp, really, to be comfortable.  But she was.  Well, no- not comfortable.  Home.  Home was the word.  The feeling of being right where one should be.  Of finding things in place, and oneself in place among them. 

She lolled her head back and forth on the soft surface of the ground, reveling in the feel of the individual blades of grass shifting underneath her.  She inhaled, letting the scent of dirt and musty herbs invade her nostrils.  The scent brought back memories of summer afternoons spent leaping over sprinklers and deep, shady dreams under the maple trees in her backyard.

It was the kind of memory that had mapped itself not in her brain, but in her bones.  She felt it, rather than recalling it.  And let herself sink deeper into it, into the lovely moment of peace.

The Insucure Writer's Support Group: March

Thanks to  Lauren Hennessy, Lisa Buie-Collard, Lidy,Christine Rains, and Mary Aalgaard for hosting!

I wanted this to be an empowered post.  A "go get 'em", "fly your freak flag high" kind-of post.  But I admit it: I'm insecure.  I guess this is the place, though.

I'm currently going through the single most difficult personal issue I've ever faced in my entire life.  (And no, that's not hyperbole- I've had enough life experience by now to have some pretty dark stuff to choose from and this is the worst.  Though unfortunately I doubt i'll be able to say that on my death bed- but one battle at a time.)  This experience, not surprisingly, is flooding me with so much pain I can barely stay afloat.  And I'm trying, really trying, to access that stuff and use it because of the whole idea that the best art comes from the worst pain.

Here's the problem (and the source of my insecurities): it's some pretty crazy stuff.  I'm letting out raw, unedited psychoses on the page and putting it out there for the world to see and it seems (or i'm concerned) that it's too raw for anyone to connect to.  Of all my crazy analogies and memoir-style entries not a single one of them has gotten a comment.  (Not that I usually get millions of people here at this site but I get a few.)  And honestly, I don't really feel like it's fair to blame anybody for that.

As much as I advocate for the need to be raw and honest and put out there what you need to put out there I do recognize that art needs to be at least somewhat accessible- or understandable.  You can't make up your own language and then be upset when no one understands what you're saying.

And part of me thinks it's just a question of timing- right now, in the thick of it, I can barely even make sense of it so how could anyone else?  People take time to process and figure stuff out and the story takes on texture and an arc and ending- those are the ones that make the biggest bang.  Everyone who's written a memoir has already gone through the thing they wrote the memoir about.  Cheryl Strayed didn't start writing Wild while she was hiking the PCT.  Elizabeth Gilbert didn't start the first draft of Eat, Pray, Love while she was eating, praying and loving her way around the world.

So I guess i'm trying to answer my own question and console myself that there is a place for all this, just in a different time, with new perspective and understanding.  But that makes me wonder if I should be posting this stuff, if I should be putting it out there at all.  Or if the right place to say these things is in a journal where it can sit and marinate for a while.  And if that is the case, how do I keep up with writing everyday when the only thing that comes to mind is the pain?  How do I keep up with my year of writing dangerously when the stuff i'm writing is too dangerous?

I would honestly appreciate real feedback from folks who have struggled with these same questions.  Please, don't just say "hi"- say something real.  I need it right now.

Thank you.

Comfort

In the midst of so much change, so much fear, so many frightening possibilities there is comfort in the small things.  Commercials which haven't changed in tone since I was ten years old.  Comfortable lounges on couches.  The warmth of a nearby dog, snuggling up close and seeking the same comfort as me.   The quiet but constant ticking of a nearby clock.

Small, simple materials.  Quiet, inconsequential consistencies.  These are the buoys that keep one afloat in the chaos of the storm.