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.
I approach the edges of what has become the Kingdom of Misery and I am haunted by an image super-imposed over all I see; a forgotten dream of such power and beauty that it brings tears to eyes long gone dry.
"What about you?" asked Dawn. "You've got a girlfriend." Her voice had a tone.
"Yeah." Mica answered flatly, and his eyes went dark. "That's interesting too. We're not working out so well. I live with her, but we seem like nothing more than roommates."
"Then -- why do you stay with her?"
"Convenience, I guess."
At this point Dawn had walked over next to Mica, carefully watching him work.
"I guess you're ready to be done when you're ready?"
I have come a long way from being that scared, young girl. I've quieted my worried fears with a practice of compassion, meditation, and Yoga. I have healed my past hurts with music made of gold and with stolen nights of dancing in the sky.
My hero is Chris DeRose, founder of Last Chance for Animals, who in a true stealth rescue operation, broke into a university laboratory and saved the dogs, cats who had been cut open, loosely stitched back together, keeping their organs from slipping out of their bodies while the grateful creatures -- in one case, a beagle -- licked his face.
The gift of painting a world with words is one I never take for granted. It creates a beautiful place for me to abide, to comprehend circumstances, to grow in wisdom. It powers my spine to speak the Truth as I see it without distraction. If you read my words, you have to hear my voice, and you have to see (at least a little bit) my heart.
I continue on, forging a path that no one has taken, nor would have thought possible considering my obstacles. Yet I am indebted to the hardship, which has challenged me to see the possibilities rather than the walls.
If we try to exile life to a private island,
we will drown in the wine of angels.
There's a reason we have yet to reach heaven.
We don't know how to handle permanent loveliness.
We clench our bodies for fear
they will be stolen in the night.
We don't know how to harness
our own power and just might
kill ourselves if left in charge
of our own brains,
or if our brains were left in charge of us.
What is a rebel? Someone who refuses to conform to established standards of conduct. Someone who resists authority, control or tradition. Someone who rejects status quo sometimes to the point of being thought of as weird or an outcast. Someone who exhibits great independence in thought and action. Someone who says, "This (insert word: job, relationship, societal beliefs/constructs, etc) isn't working anymore and has got to go." A person who is innovative, insightful, and not afraid of ridding the dead in life. Sounds like a raven to me.
And now here I am by the table, writing, and feeling exactly like a hero, because I woke up just to write. A hero who will never leave her journey or go back to that struggle of feeling or trying to fill the morning emptiness because the mornings are hers to write and the sky is listening with great pleasure.