morning

i used to be a morning person. back before i lost myself and my sense of direction with three years of sleep deprivation. i used to love waking up and being the only one awake in the house to get my morning going just right. it’s a tender time, this balance of grump and grouch, stretch and yawn.

over the years days stretched into nights. they blended together in the dark, mixed with the need for the sun to rise just to fucking end the torture of parenting at night. windowless apartment rooms robbed me of my dusk and twilight and sunrise; and replaced it with insanity. the loss of REM sleep can do that to a person. mostly now i battle insomnia. the quiet house at 2am when the whole world is asleep, and the strong need for sleep is there with you. the want is followed with the inability. my mind just won’t stop racing. it’s an endless loop and it’s exhausting but for some reason i cannot collapse into my bed and welcome slumber. 

i don’t require an alarm clock anymore these days. he wakes me with his own grump and grouch, punch and kick. he is most definitely NOT a morning person. and that’s ok. it’s just hard to maintain your balance as a morning mother when someone keeps knocking you over. especially before your eyes are even open. ouch.

maybe one day i will be a morning person again. if i can manage to peel my eyelids back and peer through the fog. if i successfully creep through the house without waking a soul. those moments alone are glorious. and i find that i’m a much better mother when we greet the day this way.

 

river may not be a morning person, but he most definitely is an animal person. for over a year now he’s told me his plans to acquire a kitty. one of his very own. an orange tabby. a girlie. and her name shall be Emily. oh, he’s nearly convinced me. i love Emily already, maybe as much as he does. i love cats and wouldn’t mind the small addition because i see how he is with friends, how gingerly he measures and scoops out the cat food, how he holds the kitty door open for them and then tries to squeeze his own melon head through there as well. he truly believes he’s a kitty, it’s quite the sight.

we are dogsitting for a friend this weekend. and we awoke this morning to a bright-eyed pup on the bed. this morning sealed the deal for me and my future as a cat lady. this morning we awoke to giggles, and not because the dog was particularly happy. but the child was. as he bounded from bed and put all fours on the ground, scrambling up and down the hallway with the dog. he called to me, “we are kitties!” as he reached for the doorknob to let themselves out for the morning pee. he scampered back down the hallway and bounced into bed, a fit of laughter and smiles. how nice. how very nice. even with a borrowed dog who’s not entirely amused or enthralled with his feline antics.

river is cat through and through. he’s not graceful nor does he move on quiet kitty feet. but neither is he the dog whimper and cry, nudging the window shades with wet nose. he is kitty fur and sleepy ball of nest. he is soft and purring. “i am a sweet sweet kitty” he tells me as he curls up in my lap. and he is. i can feel it in my heart. so Emily, wherever you are right now. i’m letting you know that we will find you, we will call you to us when the time is right to form our feline family.

thankful

there is much to be thankful for. today and always. but words escape me this morning as he waves goodbye. i get choked up with the scent of his hair, the chip on his front tooth, his sudden big boyness. i’m thinking of where i stood one year ago and where i stand now. it’s overwhelming… in the best sense. and for that; all that is human spirit and love, strength and courage, truth and kindness conquering all … is what i’m most thankful for.

this poem was posted on shutter sisters today and it pulled me together at the seams with outlook. yes, i can begin my day. yes, a feast of life.

happy thanksgiving everyone.hold your loved ones a little closer to your heart today.

Love After Love

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

-Derek Walcott

cutlery

All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another. ~Anatole France

i’m sorting spoons. not to set the table with fine china, the good stuff pulled from the imaginary sideboard of my imaginary home. not to polish the silver as i was called to do in my family as a child during thanksgiving. i’m just sorting spoons, clean and straight out of the dishwasher, making sure i have my entire set of utensils. you see, what is separating. i’m keeping is the set from my auntie bea. i count out four of each, thankful that none got lost, or left in cars, or taken to work and never returned.

i’m separating the ikea spoons, flat and sleek. counting out the dinner forks and salad forks making sure there are four of each. wondering why four of each are needed. when conversations of past float through my mind, about dishes and cutlery, arguments that never went anywhere and always bubbled over with the soup, bitterness that cluttered our sink with the leftovers. arguments that seem ridiculously silly to me in this moment. that is what was. and it was real. what a strange life that was.

there were always too many dishes. that was the complaint. one bowl one cup one spoon should suffice. i laughed today thinking of this. it’s a good thing there were always too many dishes, now we each get a complete set. how convenient.

into the box they go with the le cruset fondue pot and matching skillets.
one potato two potato three potato four…

the radio is playing and it sings in my ears, my life the fucking musical. it’s funny to me now, the choice of songs played over the airwaves at moments like this. i hear this sweet sweet voice in its melancholy and i smile. this song plays and i hum along although i never heard it before today.

should i be sad? i contemplate it for a moment, how surreal this is to me, and then decide there’s no real emotion to go with this. knowing these dishes, these heavy pots and pans that wreck my wrists will hang in his new kitchen leaves me feeling absolutely nothing. does this mean enough time has passed? maybe.

does this mean i’m getting new pots and pans? most definitely. 
five potato six potato seven potato more…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

i know what i don’t want. when i pick up a book and it’s full of statistics, i have a hard time going any further. i don’t want to read about children of divorce and how they become the adult children of divorce and the statistics that follow them through life. everyone knows the divorce rate is 50% of all marriages. everyone knows that baggage follows them to every new home, every new relationship. everyone knows that baggage is heavy shit.

what about the marriages that remain? not those who are truly happy, but those who stick it out ‘for the kids’? as if they, the kids, are unaware of the bubbling turmoil, the shifting floor, the arguments they don’t want to hear, the disrespect they learn from you, the adult. what i want is a book with those statistics.

but no one wants to talk about that, all that is swept under the rug, the damage that was done by staying. divorce is the dirty laundry that gets aired out in open while silent suffering is what brews dysfuction in families. bitterness is the story that gets passed down from mother to daughter, bondage for the miserable. it’s what sends the child under the table with his hands over his ears, it’s what teaches the boy to be the man, what to look for in a wife, how to partner, how to parent, and on and on.

what about the loss of love, the lack of passion, the disrespect and anger that raises children in these marriages when they chose to stick it out for the kids? who’s gonna write that book? no one. because they stay. they don’t want to see how that is just as detrimental to a growing child. is it? could it be moreso? i wish i knew. these thoughts battle my brain and wreck my sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

today for some reason the stats on my blog have skyrocketed, tripling in size for what is a normal day. truly record breaking. i read my top post. hmmm. more mundane. it causes me some wonder. as in “i wonder what’s going on out there in blogland?” maybe i should pay more attention. i’m usually the last to know. i wear a pretty good set of blinders these days.

often times i feel as if i’m just talking to myself, outloud with poor grammar. i see your comments, i really do. and they touch me and reach me and bring me comfort in ways i never knew before. i don’t want to dismiss that. it’s just that i wonder ‘why’ alot. it’s just this place i’m in, where i’m sorting spoons and wondering what else to write about. life is so mundane and so peculiar at the same time. often times i’m so tired of my own voice. my own self censoring of words, emotions, and thoughts that i worry are too much, too much anything.

when i peek behind the scenes i know that some onlookers stumble here by googling ‘krebs cycle acne’ or ‘citric acid intolerance’ or ‘measuring the flow of two rivers’… but today something stood out and whether it accident or not, whether redirection or dead end, whether it’s true or not, someone found me with these words:

“i can see myself in her”

and that made all the difference.

tightrope

he’s sitting on the floor with his yogurt on the coffee table. he seems on edge, even though this was his place of choosing.  he shifts uncomfortably as if frozen to that spot, like a bad dream where the monsters are on your tail, and you scream bloody silence that hurts your throat, and your legs don’t work to run. “momma, can you help me over that darkness?”

he’s referring to the hallway. every single light in the house is on. and it’s daylight. but the very last room at the end of the very long hallway seems dark to him even at noon. i walk down the hall and click on the light. he breathes and continues slurping his yogurt off the spoon.

his question repeats in my head, ”can you help me over that darkness?”

i am a split person.

half what was, half what is. torn between weak and strong. fighting about right and wrong. sitting somewhere dangerously close to bitter and sweet. my feet are dangling over the edge there. if the wind blows too strong, it’s easy to sway me in either direction. it’s a line. i can see it, i can feel it. i drew it there myself. i made that line. sometimes i dance or slither or belly crawl across it. it depends on mood and situation. for now, today, it is like river’s hallway of darkness. i walk it like a tightrope and sometimes i lose my balance. i wish i wasn’t swayed so easily by this breeze. 

have i mentioned the scales are tipping? and this is a good thing. this is what keeps me going. this is one foot infront of the other. this is all i can do. these are the motions, and i am going through them. wake up. live. sleep. wake up. live. sleep. it’s a pull. a magnetic draw to my very core. and i follow it unwillingly, unaware of the iron shavings trailing behind me.

if i look too closely the tightrope disappears and i freak myself out with vertigo and fear of heights. but if i unfocus my eyes i can see it clearly. it’s like a golden thread tied eternally to my heart, tugging me gently when i go unwillingly. leading me to where i need to be. helping me over that darkness, giving off just the faintest golden glow. with just enough light, it reminds me of the blessings. and they come in all forms. they come two by two. they come just when i need them. before i know it i am surrounded by them; by the simplicity of the kindness, the humanness, the beauty of spirit. they act as a tiny applauding audience… cheering me, the tightrope walker. the beauty to me is that they are unaware of their own importance in my balancing act. 

this is the expansion of heart. this is coming to the place, the root of the tree and recognizing that the scales are tipping.  the good is outweighting the bad.  this is my heart tripling in size. it hurts. it’s all things scary and new and hard. but also all things balanced and trusted and fated.

are you writing?

his voice is small and far away.
we never talk on the phone.

                                                                           ~~~~~~~~~~~
i’m supposed to not use that word ‘never’. i generalize most things into categories like ‘always’ and ‘never’ it comes out of practice, out of how i formed my reality into these neat compartments. not ‘neat’ as in not messy. but neat as in boxlike. as in things that fit easily into boxes. pile them in and put them in the closet. i dont’ want to see those things anymore. those nevers’ and always’. i’m done with them yet they cling to my tongue and fall out of my mouth when i least expect it.
                                                                           ~~~~~~~~~~~

i answer the phone.

‘hello?’ i figure it’s him because sometimes when he’s with his daddy he wants to call and say hi. there’s a bit of silence on his part, a bit of shuffling.

he’s on the phone with me now, and i can picture his face looking around at his surroundings as he talks in his high voice, still holding onto its babyness.

‘are you my momma?’ he asks the phone. he asks the buttons, the technology that brings us closer in our distance across the city this afternoon. we never talk on the phone because we usually talk in person. learning each others voices over the phone is new to us.

‘yes i’m your momma. did you call me to say hi?’ there’s a silence that i can imagine is filled with a smile and possibly the hand to eye reaction he has to shyness.

dear god i love him.

his voice is muffled.
‘are you writing?’

i heard him say ‘driving’ and since i just got out of the car it was on my mind. he saw me drive away after dropping him off. when he didnt’ look back. he never looks back and i always do. driving. driving. since we live so far now, so far from everything it seems. since work and play and time away seem to hog up all the hours of the day. while driving into the sun i’m counting blocks and minutes; wondering how to move, how to pack, how to separate all those belongings accumulated over 13 years into two separate homes. 

‘no, i’m not driving anymore, i’m at home now.’

he asks again, ‘are you writing?’

oh. writing.

this thing i do. this thing i do when i’m away from you, my love. this thing that consumes me, pushes me around like a bully making me not want to come out to play anymore, then begs my forgiveness with a fine point pen. this thing that builds up to point of overflow, then pours from my head leaving me to lay in the wet spot of my own self. this thing i do. always this thing i do.

‘yes, sweetie. i’m writing.’

i should be writing. i’m thinking of writing. does that count for something? i’m laying out the map of memories. plotting my course, gathering supplies with me under both arms. i’m running towards the light. i’m just a little scared of the adventure, of where it’ll take me. so i feign busyness, but i’m not fooling anyone.

‘i’m glad you called me. i love you baby.’

‘i love you.’ those words i never hear. the words that seem to only come from over the telephone wires. those lucky wires. they get to feel them, savoring each letter. i wonder if they taste metallic or sweet in that way that gets you in the back of your throat. they roll off the tongue and into my ear, into my heart.

then silence. and the beep of the cellphone that the other line has disconnected. and just like that i’m left here standing in the kitchen alone… smiling.

his baby voice echoing in my mind.
writing. writing.
momma is a writer.

~

you
you are your own
as i have always known
you showed me truth in myself
undeniably, it came as all things do
over time.

you
you are not an accessory
you are not a side kick
but an extension of heart
a soul offering guidance,
needing guidance.

this missing is here now
and i’m beginning to see why
when it was nothing but shadow,
it stood in our peripherial vision
it slipped from our fingers down the drain,
out of sight out of mind

this missing is here now
because light was cast upon a shadow
the leaving was a gift
the shadow sprang to life
without one there would have been no other
and this is what makes it bittersweet.

it is not my missing
it’s yours
the extension of heart.

my missing is not for what was
for body, or presence
it was for hopes and dreams and wishes
i planted all those years ago
those that got uprooted, yanked, stomped,
ignored, shamed, scorched and flooded.

my missing is for time.
my missing is for place.

i can only hope that one day
you will feel it in your heart
possibly as the extension into a smaller being
thirty years from now
(you told me yesterday
‘when i am a daddy, i will have a little girl’)

maybe then it will be clear
when all things left unspoken will be known
the answers you may have had
but never asked
the stories that are not mine to share with you
the reality of the two lives lived separately.

maybe then you will know the why
without me ever speaking it.

and because i know you
when my soul intertwined yours
while in my womb
because i know you
i think you might understand
and that alone lifts my guilt

the guilt i carry for doing nothing wrong

i think you might understand
because i know you
and this lessons my burden
if only one rock at a time.

one quiet moment

the barometric pressure today was oppressive on eyelids and brain cells. oppressive as the grey sky was looming and hovering with stooped shoulders. it pressed down on us and our every movement. veins moaned and ached with each pulsing of blood. eyes were slow to blink, all of life was draped in a heavy wool blanket. not for comfort or coziness. it draped to smother.

today we drove to the gardens and bickered miserably. he and i one entity. one mind feeling oppressed with the clouds and the effect it has on us. the barometric pressure would affect his mood and sleep patterns as a baby, just as it affected my varicose veins. today is familiar in that sense. no one runs today, we drag our feet as if through mud. each clump grabbing ahold of our ankles, promising like a bully to steal our shoes with the next step.

the butterflies appear out of nowhere. light and carefree. river sees them first and is all aglow in their freedom. they fly to all the flowers again and again, in search of nectar. “i want to drink nectar!” he speaks like a sullen wood sprite not invited to the party. “i want to try flower juice!” the sky and the wind drown out his thought. in that instant we are pushed to the ground. the air pins us to the mulch. he sits in my lap and we watch the butterflies in silence, every so often he mutters “i want to look through the viewfinder” and i help him balance my heavy lens up to his eye. he drinks it in, just as they do nectar. “i want….”

the sky opens and rain drops fall. finally release! and yet as we drive home, i watch the mood in the rearview mirror. i feel it take up space in the backseat, it taps me on the shoulder while i drive. the mood will have to wait until we get home, which it does. it always does.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

all this reminds me of my mom’s old pressure cooker. it was a beast of a kitchen appliance. an army green bohemuth. i think she was terrified of the thing, she flitted around it when it got to rocking it’s lid, it was a delicate balance of detinating a bomb. i remember the fear of the thing spontaneously exploding and sending boiling shards of potato across the kitchen. it threatened to give us all third degree burns. this never happened. but i feared that it would someday. the pressure cooker seemed just that unstable.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

today was like that. the slow boil under pressure. the oppression that makes you angry, feisty, tired, and sad. it boils and boils until the top is rocking and screaming and thrashing and threatening pain. this was our afternoon. it was a quiet moment that turned loud from contents under pressure. and i, now the mother, let it happen. i no longer fear the pressure cooker. let off some steam, i say, it’ll do you some good. but you can’t kick me and hit me, so let’s sit and rock for awhile and let it all go.

he’s confessed his worries to me. stepping lightly out of the tub last night, he confessed his worry of the leaving. of the being left. i reassured him that he would never be alone. that we both love him very much. that we both will always take care of him. always.

i think of this, this promise i made him while he stood before me so vulnerable. wet and cold and wrapped in a soft towel. i think of him now, the angry green pressure cooker threatening to scald if i get too close. used to be i left, but today i tried something different. we sat. he in my lap, in my arms. he was fully capable of standing and walking away if he needed. but he stayed. and screamed bloody murder in my ears for a good five minutes. he thrashed and turned beet red. i was so calm that i was freaking myself out. thinking of cradling that pressure cooker, and i remembered those early days of mothering. his angry cries that left him breathless. that intake of air that filled the room with silence as his face grew angry. he lost that anger somewhere along the way. he shoved it down somehow. but today i saw it, and as much as it was uncomfortable, i was glad it was still there.

he blew his lid while in my arms, and i did not leave. i stayed.

and after he boiled over i dried his tears. he gave me a hug and fell hard and heavy onto my shoulder. he no longer fills my lap, he drapes in big kid legs and arms out from me on the hardwood floor. he took a sip of water and we both stood up. wondering now what to do with our afternoon.

he went to his art table and began picking up crayons one by one. ‘do you want this one?’ he asked, offering an orange crayon. ‘i can peel it for you’ and so he did. for nearly an hour i lay pinned on the couch as he sat next to me peeling crayons for imaginary play. he focused his eyes and spoke and laughed and i couldn’t believe what a release that must have been for him. how hard that was for him to let go. to let me watch. for once he didn’t go hide under the table. i wanted to thank him. but instead i watched him and my smiling eyes filled to the brim with tears.

the windows are getting dark because it’s still so grey outside as it nears 4pm. it’s as if the sun shone someplace else entirely today. but inside, we sit among a pile of 64 crayon wrappers. peeled to shreds in the most calming practice of art i have ever witnessed. in the simplicity of an hour, we have become completely surrounded by color.

grateful

life is changing pretty quickly these days. it’s like the quickening of the self. life bounding forward in giant leaps. not hurtling forward with reckless speed, but bounding with big tall legs in a way that defies gravity. there is a lightness to it, a newness, and although life is turning out very different from my original starting point i’m eager for where i’ll end up. i’m scared and nervous about the unknown but i’m eager still because adventures are always exciting. if nothing else, they make for good stories.

so often we sit down for breakfast, we collect our thoughts, our warm tea, our kitty masks, our trucks, our drippy yogurt or warm oatmeal. we sit. and the light shines down, it lays across the table in angles that reveal the dust and the dirt, but all i see is the love and the beauty. and all i feel is grateful.

life is moving forward and our mornings like this will soon disappear. the ease, the freedom, the mellow will be replaced with a bit of hurry of places to go and timeclocks to meet. it’s making me sit with this month and take notice of all that i have had, all these mornings with river in the light when we both are beautiful in our morningness in our grumpiness in our overtiredness in our awakening to life. 

i’m thankful for all that was given, all that was taken, all that was offered and denied to give us this. this space together each morning. it was a beautiful gift to us.

this month i’ll be taking a photo a day, in part to cherish this time, but in part to help me find it other places too. i’m so grateful for what i’ve had with river, staying home with him for these past three years. it’s a wonderful foundation, a wonderful platform from which to leap.

We’re both just one too many mornings
An’ a thousand miles behind.

~ Bob Dylan

vote for mamas

huh? isnt’ the election over? and HELL YEAH! power to the people, water for the grassroots, and hope for the hopeless. through my tears i was so full of pride in america and so full of belief in my heart. we made history on tuesday and it all feels so good…

so, why vote now? well, last month i wrote about mindful mama magazine and shared my essay and photograph i offered for their contest. you should head over there again, the editors said they’ve used up all their kleenex reading through the entries (they really are amazing). now they’re looking for more opinions! tell them what you love…go check it out, read, and vote on the words that stir your heart. look for me there too, i’m a contest finalist! (you might have to sign in to vote on the essays. check out my post from last month to see how easy it is)

share the love! share the hope!

highs and lows

you, whoever you are, knew this was coming. knew i wouldn’t be able to resist the words that are itching to leave my fingertips. and as a disclaimer i must say *read no further* please.

please just stop reading my blog.

because try as i might, i just can’t seem to quit writing it. nor do i want to. and i shouldn’t even have to whisper that i am allowed this. this is me. and if you don’t like it, if it pulls scabs off your own skin, if it bubbles up wounds from your own life, then to quote bob dylan: ‘go away from my window, leave at your own chosen speed. i’m not the one you want babe. i’m not the one you need.’ i cannot be responsible for your happiness. i cannot be blamed wholeheartedly for the shift that happened post partum, for the need that was unmet, for the change that was inevitable, for the puzzle pieces that went missing that inturn created what was to become, for the clash and loss and transparency it created in me.

And you have no idea
No idea how it feels to be on your own
In your own home
with the fucking phone
And the mother of gloom
In your bedroom
Standing over your head
With her hand in your head
With her hand in your head

it’s dark at dinnertime now with daylight savings. neighbors drive home from their shift, sweating through their blue collars. 70 degrees at 7pm. they arrive in the driveway to a yard full of yapping dogs and window screens full of screaming wives.

i think of highs and lows. for all of us. in all our homes, in our separate little bubbles. living lives so similiar spaced out only by miles. i can’t help but think of all of us. my extended family, my neighbors, my community, my world. i think of our day, all of our days. and how they go. how they start and restart and backfire and rev and decelerate and speed while carrying us as passengers along for the ride. always along for the ride. up and down, and not really ever in control.

i think of all of us all the time. because that is who i am. and if you don’t know that about me now then you never will. and that’s a shame. but i will not swallow your words anymore. i simply will not.

You say my time here has been some sort of joke
That I’ve been messing around
Some sort of incubating period
For when I really come around
I’m cracking up

so leave me the fuck alone when i say i am sad. or when i mention i am happy. or when i bask in the glory of being blessed. leave me the fuck alone to ride these hills and valleys and simply enjoy the fucking scenery when it’s there and wonder where the beauty is when it’s gone. i’m allowed this up and down. and i’m teaching my son this as well, this thing called humanity. this is normal. this is not dwelling on the negative or seeping in the sad. this is fucking life. high and low. anyone who doesn’t want to hear about it can turn the page and find another book to read.

And I’ve been poked & stoked
It’s all smoke, there’s no more fire
Only desire
For you, whoever you are
For you, whoever you are

do you know what is normal? feeling emotion. that is normal.

also being exactly who you are supposed to be. that is normal too.

Poetry is no place for a heart that’s a whore
And I’m young & I’m strong
But I feel old & tired
Overfired

over dinner i asked river what the high point of his day was. ‘what was your favorite part of the day?’ he smiled real big and said ‘rolling down that hill and making myself dizzy’ and i smiled real big too because secretly i was hoping he’d say that. i shared my high point of the day with him. ‘my favorite part of the day was when i was laughing outloud so hard my cheeks hurt. when you were doing log rolls down that hill and making yourself dizzy.” i laughed just thinking about it. about how he did this over and over and over about a zillion times so much that he was grass stained and red rashed from rolling in the grass. each time he reached the bottom he’d try standing and sway like a drunken sot and fall over on his face laughing like a maniac from the spinning world of chaos around him. yes, that was the best. the perfection of the sky and the grass and the trees and him and me all wrapped up in it.

‘what was your least favorite part of the day?’ i ask and i swallow a drink of water preparing myself for what i think is coming. these highs and lows are tough. it’s easy to shy away from the real high and low. the real low can leave you vulnerable, almost too human, but i think it’s important. i want him to know that i am human, made of emotion just like him. ‘i didn’t like it when that baby hit me on the head with that toy’ huh. that was not what i was expecting. i don’t even remember this happening actually. ‘and i told him, ‘don’t hit me on the head!’ and i said that to him’

oh yes, i remember now seeing you both in the backyard. you playing Davey with your hands on your hips pretending to be 11 years old, the magical age for you. i remember seeing you stand so much taller than he and thinking you could really do some damage if you wanted to start wrestling in that moment of preschooler impulse. ‘i’m proud of you for using your words with that baby, that’ll help him learn not to hit.’

now it was my time to share. ‘you know what my least favorite part of the day was?’ certainly he remembered. ‘my low of today was yelling at you to get in the car… when i spoke sharply to you when i was frustrated and scared that my car was broken again, and the traffic was zooming so fast near us on the side of the road. that was my least favorite part of the day.’ and i don’t mention all the curse words i said over the steering wheel through the windshield and how i fought back the tears with anger cause that’s what i do in the face of emergency. that is, until i got home and sat down in the driveway next to the flowing pool of sickly sweet smelling coolant and i broke down and cried into my hands. i don’t mention how i learned from you the meaning of the word ‘unconditional’ when you asked me gently ‘momma do you need a hug?’ and offered it to me after i had been so ugly in my adult sized frustration.

Oh I wish I wish I wish I was born a man
So I could learn how to stand up for myself
Like those guys with guitars
I’ve been watching in bars
Who’ve been stamping their feet to a different beat
To a different beat
To a different beat

so you, whoever you are, let me be. you are not one person today but you are the collection of years of words and memories coming out in one stream of consciousness today. so don’t get your feathers ruffled when you think i’m writing about you because i’m not. you whoever you are, you are simply the trigger, the catalyst for thought and racing hearts that create words like this. you are me and how i fit myself into my life path. so let me be when i’m thrashing about on the floor when i’m wailing and kicking and crying. and even if i do it here in this space, this space i created for me out of a sheer need to find a voice. just let me be.  i dont’ want to hurt you but i might if you get too close. so back away. stop reading if it’s causing you to feel emotions that make you do things you know you shouldn’t.

please.

let me be. when i’m happy, overcome, thrilled by the truth of love and the power of freedom. just let me be. i dont’ want you watching my every movement, commenting on my song or if it’s out of key or finally in tune or thankfully not so fucking sad anymore. let me be who i am stumbling or skipping and mentioning the greatness that today or yesterday or tomorrow perhaps i will not be {gasp} sad. because sad is what you shove down, but sad is what i sing in order to heal.

I will not pretend
I will not put on a smile
I will not say I’m all right for you
For you, whoever you are
For you, whoever you are
For you, whoever you are

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lyrics by Martha Wainwright. and many thanks to kate for handing them over at just the right moment, for feeling that it was time to pass this brightly lit torch to my outstretched hand; grasping at something i couldn’t yet find, something to help me light that path, to help me find my way through it.