scars and all

Various shades of purple adorn my arms; legs; hands.  Various stages of physical healing represent stages of healing in my mind.  Some of my wounds are so raw they ache; others are mere reminders of obstacles I have overcome.

Sometimes I scratch so hard it soothes me into temporary comfort. Sometimes I don’t know whether the soothing is physical or mental. Sometimes I apologize to my right forearm who carries the brunt of my mindless processing.  Sometimes I scratch until all I can see is my own blood exiting my body, and sometimes I see fragments of pain dripping out of me in the droplets of red.

Sometimes I am filled with shame.  It is usually when I am momentarily oblivious to my scars that I intuit others noticing.  I wonder what they are wondering and I fold into myself without realizing I have allowed outward forces to infiltrate and minimize me.  Sometimes I dress in an effort to cover the outward pain that reflects my inner pain.  Sometimes I don’t care because I honor the growth each marking represents.

Sometimes I see the beauty in all of my blemishes; each mark upon my body as a step I have taken back to me.  I own them all…and sometimes I draw constellations in my mind from the patterns of purple on my body…imagining them to be a beautiful representation of something that I cannot quite define but know has a higher purpose.

Sometimes, I just sit and marvel at the journey that is life.  Scars and all.

 

 

phoenix

from the ashes of her deconstructed being,

she learns to take hesitant breaths.

from the fears that left her knowing nothing of herself,

she sees glimmers of enlightenment

and love for her soul, and

lightness in her dark.

sate amid her famine

tears with a purpose, she knows,

but is still to weary to define.

from the ashes of her deconstructed being,

she learns to see herself as beautiful again.

from the fears that left her knowing nothing of herself,

she repurposes her heart

she walks with less trepidation, and

does not convulse

does not regurgitate

signs of healing, she knows,

and she allows herself to slumber.

 

she knows

She lives this but doesn’t know it.  Her writing flows through her in beautifully scripted eloquent sentences and her words pierce me as she looks on in amazement.  She tells a story as if she were living a moment and that is where the sweet spot of beauty is found.

Words; hers, mine – they all come together to form a meaning or moment – and with her they are all poems.  She doesn’t see herself.  She writes with a vengeance while telling her story.  Poetic, always poetic – beautiful in a way only she can deliver.

It is a gift, I tell her; more so if you are unaware.  She lives and feels, and these most crucial pieces of life become her words and we are offered snippets and slices of her journey.  A view as seen through her green doe eyes and expressed through her tell-tale words.

Tell her she is wonderful.  Tell her she is amazing.  Swallow her words one-by-one as she reads them aloud.  Say nothing.  She already knows.  Somewhere deep inside of her; she knows.

muse

Rays of sunshine through fronds of palm. I cannot give due diligence to the prattling thoughts – the ones that aren’t even truly known to me until they make their way onto the pages I write to find me.

You taught me the gift of the written word back when we were all sleeping on waterbeds and rollerskating under disco balls and we didn’t know that we should have been sleeping on Posturepedic mattresses all along to prepare us for the aches and pains that show up and linger as we age.

There must be a goldfinch nearby.  Either that or you have woven yourself into these rays of sun shining down on me.  It would be like you to do that in spirit – you never were one to exhibit force or neediness – peacefully inserting yourself into my words as they assume the persona of your sloppy-bordering-on-unreadable scroll.  You chose this perfectly reflective moment in which to rest your hand with the lightest touch on my shoulder, adorning me with that familiar pat-pat of yours.

I think you’re telling me it’s all OK.  You were always good at that.

letter to my children

I just saw my life flash before me.  It is through the imagining of my last days that I try and decipher what I most want to share with you.  You can’t leave it all behind with no warning; you can’t even begin to try.  I find myself wanting to impart life lessons as equally as I want to simply savor these last moments with you.

But I do want to talk to you about love.  It’s one thing I have given my all to, yet never really mastered.  I love with a heart so full, it’s hard to tame, and it sometimes gets the best of me.  I’m not sure whether mastery in love exists or is possible, but I do know I have learned most of what I know about myself through loving others…and you will too.  I will tell you also to love with your fullest heart each time you love. Trust yourself and test your boundaries, but know when to reel it in as well.  Wear your heart on one sleeve maybe, but not both.  I love that I have loved with my raw and real core; that I have loved deeply and truly and painfully and with passion.  But I was afraid when I should not have been; confident when it made no sense to be. You’re bound to go through your share of loves and heartbreaks, and you’ll come to understand, through your own experiences, how beautiful and intricate and complex and simple love is.

Know this:  You’ll always be able to pick up the pieces – no matter what.  I think that is part of what makes the act of loving so beautiful.  When your heart is ripped from beneath you…when you feel as though you cannot carry on through the pain…it is then you will know you are truly alive; and from there you will package up your grace and every last ounce of strength you have and put your heart back together…and you will love again.

Be gentle, child; not only with your own heart but with the hearts of those you love. They are trusting in you to handle them with care.  Your loves may not last forever and that’s OK; love kindly and passionately with a full and beating heart when you do.  Be compassionate.

Most importantly, love you first.  Your heart won’t ever be ready to protect the heart of another until it knows it is safe with you.

my .07

words
angst
words
please words
will words
piano words
pencil words
story words
my words
freeing words
leave my mind words
run
words
run
words
piano run
stay
play
SPEAK
leave me
black
white
graphite
speak free
speak proud
speak strong
words
song
run
more run more
soar
go
write play speak your
way
own words
own keys
own .07
own me
words
fight me
thrill me
words
run words
tell me
i
WON
words
black
white
.07
words
mine
words
in time
words mine
words
my black
my white
my .07
my life

waiting to exhale

You get what you have been waiting for and suddenly you’re in some foreign land you didn’t know you had plans to visit.  You’ve been holding your breath so long that you don’t remember how to breathe.  Do you hold your breath and then scream, or do you exhale as you’re trembling and try to take another breath without screaming because screaming is actually limited in the effectiveness it produces?  If you don’t get this breathing thing under control you’re going to make yourself sick.  Oh wait…you already have.

You did what you had to do to get yourself to here.  It’s alright to be angry now.  Let yourself feel it, and don’t mistake the emotion for weakness.  Breathe with it, through it and for it.

Just breathe.  It’s finally over.

seven heaven

 

Take my arms and
Take my heart and
I’m so lost in you

I don’t mean to
Love this way but
It’s the little
Things you do

The beauty in your smile
The persistence in your try
The sparkles in your hair
And the glory that you
Carry with you

If I could
I’d make a song of you
And press replay
So I never had to be without
The girl I see today

I’m trying to freeze frame minutes
Save this snapshot of your life
Holding onto seven
In my mind

Yes I’m holding onto seven
In my mind

click and send

My biggest regret is that I did not apologize the moment I knew my words hurt you.  That I did not immediately recant…and tell you that none of what I retaliated with mattered, because I cared not about being right…I cared about you.

But I let that be the end.

Click and send.

We had nowhere to go from there except better.  Back to us.

But I let that be the end.

Click and send…hiding behind non-vocal words.

I wanted to get back to us.  I wanted to tell you I was scared, and vulnerable, and that the slope was a bit more steep than I was able to traverse.

But I let that be the end.

Click and send.

We could have mended, I think.  We could have been more kind.  We could have opened our souls and bared our collective beauty.

But we let that be the end.

Click, send, click, send, click, send…

Destroy.

My biggest regret is that I did not apologize the moment I knew my words hurt you.  That I did not immediately recant…and tell you that none of what I retaliated with mattered, because I cared not about being right…I cared about you.

I care about you.

Click and send.

my world in words

Today I feel pressured because I am short on time and long on tired.  Brain-drained from my day I try desperately to float into my creative space and will something to happen.  Well not just something, but something worthy of my time.  And yours.

Reflective.  Chasing shadows – of memories – of evenings – when there existed an hour, or maybe two, during which I sat alone in my living room while children slumbered in the other room.  And I wrote.  I wrote from the base of my raw heart.

I knew me most in those moments.  And I was able to learn me more with every passing day.  Each memory had its own space and freedom to pass from my mind, to my heart, through my soul, and culminate upon words and paper.  I don’t know me so much these days.  Not like that.

If I had known then that those years would be my most delicious writing moments, I may have done things differently.  I may not have traded two hours to ruminate upon and re-live a day in the life of my ever changing children, for separate bedrooms.  I may not have exchanged the chronicle of our lives for the house that became our home.

Maybe I would have done it all just the same.  Maybe I just need to figure out how to be better in my now.  Perhaps I am subconsciously hiding from the emotion I so easily feel because the rawness is unfamiliar now.  Years have passed since my soul has bared so openly.  Hard days have hardened me.  Strength comes with a caveat of skin I am not always comfortable living in.

I would float all day in my head if allowed.  Thought and word allure and tempt me constantly.  They know, as I do, the craving that satiates me…and they will win one day.

promise they will.