archives, poetry

I Belong to the Camp of the Crazy. {poetry}

When I quite haphazardly got my hands on The Invitation by Oriah, I felt intense urgency.

How can you not when she bids you come with promises that are also warnings? She says of her text, “…if this book succeeds in actually taking you into the territory of ‘The Invitation,’ you will experience, not just read about, the ache, the sorrow, the joy, the courage, the peace…” (6).

She cautions that while true “change is possible” it will be “completely unpredictable,” and finally that “no part of the journey is wasted. There is no going back. Learning cannot be undone” (7).

As a girl who is a self-assessed hot emotional mess the majority of the time precisely because I’m constantly trying to feel my way through the hidden passageways of the heart, and as a girl who also has a stubborn streak and won’t turn down a perceived challenge, I got to work on greedily consuming her pages. Together we engaged in a sort of call and response.

On page 56, there is a call: “I belong to/I was made for”

Below is my response:

I Belong to the Camp of the Crazy

Let the words of others inspire you (thanks, Oriah), but not so much that you forget your own…

I belong to the world
I belong to the land, the trees, the tides
I belong to the stars, the moons, the galaxies

I was made for magic things, epic starts and stops, hold-your-breath theatrics
I was made for forgiveness, reflection, response
I was made for music, and writing, and romance

I belong to the women who came before and those who will come after
I belong to tribes of varied color and stripe
I belong to this strong pulsating heart — ba-boom ba-boom

I was made for multi-dimensions
I was made for technicolor
I was made for daydreams and night-dreams and all the dreams in between

I belong to the scent of spring and the smell of fall
I belong to fireworks and fairies and fate
I belong to things not of this time and not yet imagined

I was made for glitter and grandeur
I was made for running, fleeing, seeking
I was made for books and barrettes and battles

I belong to silent prayers and makeshift mantras
I belong to repetition and rewrites… and longing
I belong to too much noise and searing silence

I was made for caves and canyons
I was made for expansive skies and brightly blooming wildflowers
I was made for red rock and dirt trails

I belong to sun salutations and sea glass
I belong to balmy breezes
I belong to hearing the mysteries of the universe in a swallow’s song

I was made for caravans and drum circles
I was made for conscious co-creating
I was made to believe there is purpose in it all

I belong to the sound of bangles on a wrist
I belong to shining eyes and streaked mascara
I belong to barefoot in all seasons

I am made of self-doubt and cynicism
I am made of lullabies and love songs
I am made of obsession and redemption

I belong to the camp of the crazy.
To voices in my head.
To losing touch with reality.
To illusion and… to sweet, sweet release.

Your turn: Where do you belong? What are you made of?

*For Christy, who is always willing to explore with me the very treacherous, but always beautiful, landscape of human emotions.


Kristina Ambrosia-Conn is an incurable romantic who should never have hyphenated her name, but whose greatest love came out of that union. Conscious creator, self-saboteur, sympathy crier, and true-blue Pisces, she is an exhaustive extrovert who talks (but should more often write) to process. She’s more interested in talking past lives than practicalities, and prefers discussing dream journals over the daily grind.


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