I want to be a part of, and help cultivate, communities where people come together with this philosophy of love at its core. Where writers and artists can be the voices for those who can't find the words. Where we can connect, and feel our hearts grow closer as our minds expand, our hands grow warmer even when the world feels cold. Where free expression is honored, and unique voices are encouraged. Art, writing, every form of inspiration that we create is a story that should be shared, widely and with a whole heart, because it will make a difference in someone's life, today. And that should never be stifled, or guarded with jealous, small hearts and fearful, grasping minds.
Think of it like clearing a space in your soul for something new and amazing to blossom. Like turning the soil, planting seeds, and tending the garden that comes… except this is in your spirit. If there's something in particular that's troubling you, write about it. Write about your ideal outcome, your options, your resources; writing about these things helps you to work through and ultimately get past them.
Sometimes the magnitude of beauty one finds in Montana can be crushing -- reducing one to feel small and insignificant, the way some people might feel while sitting under the night sky with billions of stars overhead.
I was no longer writing the book just for my own therapeutic benefit; I was writing it now to be read by others. Therefore I had to be -- to the best of my abilities -- absolutely honest and authentic.
We are all muses in some way and because I am an empath, I can easily relate to music and people’s words and art even if I don’t feel the same way of my own volition. Upon experiencing the energy their art releases, however, I can take on the emotions of what they’ve created and embody their vision.
Countless writers have swarmed the social media phenomenon, using it as a tool to spread ideas, connect with one another, and promote their prose and poetry. However, with all of the typewritten text out there, it's hard to know who is writing what and which writers are leading the pack.
I looked past her and saw the trail she had left behind her disappearing far into the distance. I saw discarded dreams, crushed hopes, relationships buried under piles of neglect, talents set aside and scarred by mockery, and worst of all, drop after endless drop of hope lost along the way.
What if nothing was a waste of time and you had everything to be grateful for? What if, every morning when you look into that medicine cabinet mirror, there are hundreds of spirits behind it wishing you well, wishing you to once again be the creative warrior that you are?
Right now, the sun is shining ever so magnificently. I opened all the blinds in this place I come to write, and the warmth of the great star is soothing my ever-thinking brain that is, undoubtedly, on fire today. It is as if I am in a cell and she, my dear sunshine, is attempting to set me free. Her smiles sneak through the blades, coaxing me to come out and play, although my brain knows it is freezing cold outside. It actually started snowing again. I ignore all thought. I rudely tell my brain that it is an outright dirty, sneaky liar -- and often, it is -- and continue to type to you now, choosing whatever random thought pops into my head, and hope to cause you to think about your own surroundings.
Do you remember? When you looked all around you, and saw how everything was dotted with pinpoints of light? They were quiet and close in front of your eyes, like you brought the stars down from the sky wherever you looked. It could have been eyes you cannot trust. Or it could have been a phenomenon. Or, it could be that when things are of the same essence, there really is no space between them. No space at all.
I realize that the most fool moments of my life have been the richest ones. Had I not been a fool, I never would have let myself love M. Had I been able to buy a clue, I would have kicked my high school sweetheart to the curb when I was 20. Had I not had a soft spot for wounded pups, I would have dumped several other exes at the roadside long before I did. However, the fact of the matter is, my foolish heart took risks. It took me to Europe to meet Elton John (which I did), to New York to write songs, to LA to write stories, and to Phoenix to find my calling as a writer and teacher. My capacity to be a fool led to most of the important discoveries I made about myself and my inner life. Had I played it safe, languishing in my hometown in some dead end office job, most of the person I am would fall in the might have been column. And that would have been a shame.
With each act of courage, each dream and light offered, each one, wild at heart, dropping free to all fours, the fire grew… and grew… and grew… until the power of what we had created illuminated the sky as if lit by the sun, the moon, and every star.
The eyes of the heart begin to perceive the other as a nightmare instead of the person of their dreams. Both are blinded to the beauty, heart and courage of the other. Trust is undermined, and then no longer exists.
In this age of free-flowing advice about who we should be and how we should go about things, the myth of the magic solution for every problem and do-it-yourself coaching programs, we've forgotten how to struggle with, feel and think for ourselves.
Enter poetry, where these zipping morsels could be sculpted, molded, and artfully arranged to pleasing proportions. They could be transformed to whatever was my whimsy or need, also serving as a safe and satisfying vessel for the intensity of my youthful emotional rage.
It is important that everyone can afford art. And, so, because there are people who are just barely getting by, as I have often been, I like what Amanda Palmer says on her site: "If you're broke, take it. If you love it, come back later and kick in money when you have it." This approach, to me, allows art to maintain its integrity without the need to try to convert itself into commodity. And it allows the artist to maintain their integrity and empowers them to establish genuine relationships that are based on mutual respect and trust with the people who are receiving their work. For me, it's an experiment -- it's an experiment in the vulnerability of trust.
I currently hold the belief that the external world acts as a mirror, showcasing what is happening inside each individual, and these individual reflections exhibit the state of our collective consciousness. When we are sick in our bodies, disease will manifest in the physical atmosphere of the Earth.
She spent her weekends
inside the walls of a prison
visiting her mother.
The unconditional love the little girl had
made her believe in lies
and live off false hope.
She moved in with her father,
she was trying to cope.
We exchanged words
like they were kisses,
like they were berries
from transcendental trees,
held on to each other for security.
We would sleep on grates
that released hazy 6-train heat.
Carry our blankets
and our painkillers,
shove notebooks into pockets
and hope we had enough ink
to spell out myth and
Blueberries do not exist here.
Rubies are extinct.
The purples and yellows
do not shine orange.
They vary in shade and shape
appearing depressed and lifeless.
One can only guess the gray away,
shame it until it forgives the truth.
My goal is, though, to eventually love my distinctive self, my unique thoughts and feelings, and to believe that they do have a purpose for both me and you, and that I will not feel ashamed any more to be completely and boldly myself.
The hypermasculine mind
asks me to prove how badly I need him.
But I know he needs me,
the goddess that he views objectively,
to demonstrate his depths
that lie within his want
and capacity to conquer.
"Have you ever thought of getting divorced?" He sounded tinged with something green.
"Of course." Dawn was cautious. "It's just..." She paused. "Easier said than done." She looked at Mica. "Despite our own 'monochromatic' relationship, we are truly wonderful friends."
She was a weak yellow tone.
"But is just being friends, enough? From all that we've talked about, don't you want to find true happiness? That passion you have always yearned for?"
"Well, generally I am happy..."
Mica stopped abruptly and looked at Dawn with a strange look. He then sort of rolled his eyes and continued painting -- he was wrought with many colors.
"He's a fool." Mica said, after a bit. "Taking you for granted."
"Foolish, maybe, but I know he loves me."
"Oh yeah?" He laughed. "I wish you could hear yourself." Mica said quietly but with dark tones in his voice. "I think you're just scared."
Some search high and low,
some search for centuries.
The search does not stop
through time and space.
Desperately looking for the one,
the one who makes them whole
the one who embraces them,
who tells them that all is okay.
They don't see the image in the mirror,
the untold stories in their own eyes
the depth of their ageless souls,
the love that is waiting
to be found and embraced.