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My vow. Your help.

Oh hey there.

It’s been a while hasn’t it? One can have all the best intentions and make all the plans but still go missing for awhile. It’s okay.

I have no good excuses except that, this is hard.

What do I mean by “this”? Well, life, being inside my wee little head, writing, creating, mothering, running a business, having a career. You know, I know you know.

I am unlikely to get any better at it, at least accordingly to my own tally, but I have made a pledge towards improved effort in one spot. I’ve told a few people about this, I’ve alluded to it here on these pages too. But, I’m weak when it comes to this. I’m scared mostly. So, I’m going to ask for your help. Likely repeatedly.

I’ve been so restless. I’ve been searching everywhere: meditating, reading, listening, walking, running, stretching, sitting, reaching out, drawing in. But I have just been unable to satisfy what is stirring in me. It’s like a caged animal pacing back and forth. Sometimes it tries to claw itself up my throat when I ignore it. Sometimes it is curled in my belly purring when I get close to setting it free. Mostly it paces. Back and forth, back and forth. And I think it is getting impatient.

Today I finally took the time to sit down at my keyboard and type again. Time passed so beautifully. My desk is a haven. My girls and their friend came in at one point while I was here and their friend remarked: “You have a great life. Well maybe not so much the doctoring, but this is really great.” From the mouths of babes, eh? Of course the doctoring is great, it really is, in fact my entire life is so extraordinary that it is ridiculous to consider. But, as I tell my husband, it is because of this extraordinary that I have the desire and ability to push further. My restlessness is not dissatisfaction at all. It’s a knowing that I have more to give and it would be inconsiderate to all those who have cradled me to this point to not give it a go.

So, I’m going to vow here to spend time every week to write my book. Maybe if I can gather more courage, I can commit to it daily. Because it is only in my book where I can weave and spin and dazzle and delight myself the way that I long to be. My beast needs a good run, it’s time to let her stretch her legs, flex her muscles, and lean into the wind.

Here is how she starts. I have no idea how or when she will end but I need to find out.

xo J

She sits on the edge of the bed. The box in her hands, which rest on her lap. The bed is soft and simple. The pattern of the yellow and white duvet is worn perfectly to a blend of nostalgia and comfort. The two simple pillows rest at the head of the bed. You could almost see the outline of her still there, chest rising and falling, serenity spread across her face. As the sun rises, perfect beams of soft light start to enter the room from the windows at its end and slowly crawl up the bed to where Rose sits.
She’s exhausted. Her body feels weak, near transparent. Her eyes heavy from recent tears, her throat contracted knowing more may come, her heart heavy in her chest as if no longer upright at attention and beating, but soft and resting after too much work. Although she knew that night was coming it didn’t make it any easier. Death is never easy on those who watch and not partake it would seem.
The woman who left them last night shaped them all so much Rose thinks, although she couldn’t explain how or why.
When Grace entered their house they were the typical family; working away, going to school, wanting for little, questioning less. But over the year she was with them so much changed. It all changed.
Was it a coincidence? Rose wondered. Was it just a trick of the mind to attach a start date and an end date to what seemed like a chapter in their lives? Would it all have happened anyway?
She supposes that that is what a skeptic would think. That’s what she would have thought. But does that seem right? Instead, could they have been led, by some force, to where they ended up. A force full of love and knowing and universality. Reflecting on this the tears well up again and a deep longing rises like another wave in her body that causes her to buckle forward in ache and sadness.
“Who will guide us now? Why didn’t I pay better attention? Who will carry my girls like I’ve felt carried?” She whispers aloud, to no one.
As her heads bows forward under the weight of grief again, her tears land with a drop, drop, on the music box in her hands. She smiles thinking of the little ballerina, most likely, inside who will undoubtedly start to turn as she opens the box to reveal a song and possessions. Whoever thought to put a ballerina in a box? She thinks to herself. The thought brings a small smile. And with that, she wipes her tears on her sleeve, unlatches the box, and as she does a beautiful summer breeze blows in the open window at the end of the room. The breeze lifts the lace curtains of the window almost to the ceiling and works it way through the room to where Rose sits. As it reaches her and her gift, the contents of the box fly into the space of the room like doves finally being set free.
At first Rose can’t tell what they are, but as they start to land from their flight on the bed and floor around her, Rose sees. And, with mouth agape understands instantly. It was her. She was leading them and, Rose now realizes in crystalline clear certainty, left when she knew her work was done.

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Feelings & Hurt

So, something has been bouncing around in my head for a while now. It claimed prime occupancy when I realized that my posts on Vibrancy and Love were the most well received here in a while. This, sort of, pissed me off. Ha! Indulge me if you will.

I’ve been hearing two things with increasing frequency:

1) My life is great, I have nothing to be X about, I shouldn’t feel X, what is going on?

and,

2) I’m feeling really shitty, totally off and confused, but I’m just going to focus on the positive.

Now, 1) is often said to me by my incredible patients and “X” usually ends up being either anxious or depressed or a neat little mix of both (brutal, I know guys). 2) is usually said to me by friends, family, or the whole of the internet. If you are my lone crooked little follower that has read my words thus far on this blog, you probably can guess what my response to both 1) and 2) is. For the rest of you, let me clarify:

Bullshit.

Before you yell, let me explain.

I absolutely think the vast majority of us need to be unconditionally grateful, often way more grateful, for the lives we have and lead. The fact that I can sit here and muse on a blog and you can sit there and read it is ridiculously privileged and we should never ever forget that. However, if you feel something, whether that be joy, bliss, sadness or like shit, don’t you dare ever put a “shouldn’t” in front of it. Unless you are actually a psychopath, don’t you dare. The whole point of life in its entirety is feeling something. If you feel something there is a reason why. These things that make our throats swell, our chests contract, our abdomen’s ache, our heads spin, and our limbs tingle have purpose. So, for Pete’s sake, feel them. You can try to do so in private, that is certainly a start. But, I think ultimately, the big ones need a bit of an audience. The conversation that you are likely to have if you say: “I feel like X, I don’t know why, but there it is, can you help?” versus “I feel like X, I shouldn’t, so let’s not talk about that, K?” is likely to be far richer and beautiful for you, and also the person you share with. (Obviously as the lunatic who shares her thoughts on the internet, I am heavily biased in this nuanced opinion).

I will reiterate, as I don’t think I can say it enough here on these pages, not one single feeling is wrong. They all have a purpose and they all are a lesson. Use them. Dammit.

If you are a grown man, with a great family, a steady job, and money in the bank and you find yourself all of a sudden crying every day, there is something going on. You actually probably already know what it is. So, go ahead, name it. If you can’t, yet, find someone to sit with you while you start trying. You can be grateful and privileged and also in pain. Not one of those things are mutually exclusive. If someone in your family, who you love, is in crisis, and you who, supposedly, is not in crisis, for some reason finds going to work increasingly like trying to run in quicksand with an elephant on your back while being chased by a starving tiger, I think maybe you have the right to feel a few feelings. Right?

Now, so far I think we can agree that coming to an agreement on 1) was easy, you’re going to be angrier with me about my feelings about 2). Hang in there.

Yes, admittedly, I will concede that I have never been nominated Miss Sunshine in any of the circles I’ve travelled in, but if you cracked open my chest I think you might actually see super cute bunnies, rainbows, floating pink hearts, and, in general, a big lovefest. And, again, I’ll say it again for the people in the back, most of us should be grateful af. But the reflexive ‘I’m just going to focus on the positive’, is getting really fucking old to me. And, don’t even get me started about the how going through X has made me stronger so yay speak. Good lord. For the love of all that is holy, some things that happen to us are wrong and bad. Full. Stop. Being awfully touched by someone uninvited and scary, your baby dying before its first breath, being harmfully betrayed by a loved one, getting a diagnosis with a whole life to live; that hurts. Hurt is hurt. Name it so.

Last week, my kids were doing their usual infuriating wrestling match before bed. Somehow my eldest ended up on the floor of her closet defending that turf while my youngest, all limbs flailing I presume, was on the other side of the closet door. At some point young one pushed said door and met some resistance as older one’s toes were between the two solid pieces of wood that would normally, unencumbered, span said door’s hinge. Not being one to back down from a challenge, young one pushed harder. I’m guessing this hurt like a mother trucker as the wail that ensued from older one was, well, loud. As I arrived on the scene to see older one’s toes red, smashed, and almost visibly throbbing like they were in a cartoon and the youngest one standing in despair of what she had mistakenly done, guess what I didn’t say? I didn’t say, “welp ladies, looks like time to focus on the positive of this situation, eh?” No!! I said, oh my sweet lord that looks like it really hurts, let me get you some ice. And, and, I asked younger one to apologize. Sincerely. Which she did, with tears in her eyes as well. Of course, everyone recovered and went on to fight again the next night, toes and all.

The difference between the toe debacle and 2)? Well a whole stratosphere, but also very little. Hurt is hurt. Those feelings you think you shouldn’t be feeling, guess what? Also from hurt. And you know what makes hurt hurt more? And linger and resurface and hide behind corners? The hurt from some one or something that you never got an “I’m sorry” for and likely never will.

That hurts.

None of this new news and I am no where near qualified to tell you how navigate the pain and either find the sorry or learn to be okay without it, but what I am sure of is that you are damn well allowed to feel what you feel and to feel all of it as long as you need to.

So, let’s check in. Hate me or am I making some sense? Or, am I making sense, and thenceforth, you hate me?

Either way, I’ll summarize: you are meant to feel whatever it is you are feeling. If that feeling is termed shit, well then, there is work to do to move onto better. Also, on your way from shit to better if you admit/find that there was hurt, especially that lacked a sorry, well, that is really hard. You are allowed to struggle with that. If you are the unicorn who hasn’t been hurt or the enlightened wizard who has worked through it, the rest of us beg you, when we allude to our hurt, just be brave and sit with it, don’t redirect us. If you are neither unicorn nor wizard and are, in fact, just like the rest of us, know that we want to do the same for you. As a collective, I kind of think it is time that we go there.

Now, I think I am slowly starting to get it through my stubborn psyche that going “there” is hard. It’s scary. Absolutely. (And, brace yourself, if you haven’t yelled at me yet, you may be about to with this next statement..) Why do you think many seem super thrilled to sign ourselves up for the coaching trend versus spending some cash on counseling? Coaching to me sounds: positive, go get ’em, you’ve got this! Counseling to me sounds: grey, messy, holy shit am I really going to speak that? How would you like to spend your Sundays? Would you prefer a super amped pump up session about your strengths or a rocky trip down memory lane? Wooo boy! Sign me up for the former only please! Right? I’ve done neither, likely need to do significant amounts of both like yesterday, but I think it would be absolutely foolhardy, not to mention a large waste of money, to believe you could excel in wherever it is you are meant to go without getting a good understanding of where you’ve been. Not to mention, a few “I’m sorries.”

Of course we hesitate to spend our Sundays going there because of all the usuals: fear, uncertainty, shame. We wonder where exactly is “there”. And, geeze, is it bad? How bad? If I get all the way there will I be able to find my way back? I mean I feel like 6/10 on the shittiness scale now, what if I go there and it becomes 9/10, for life?

I am also willing to bet that going “there” is extra petrifying if you perceive yourself to be alone. I get that. If there is scary, if there is unknown, if there has no guarantee of a return ticket home, we’re going to desperately want a hand to squeeze, what if you think you have no hand to hold on the way? Scary.

I guess all I can say to all of that is, nonetheless, I think we have to go. Also, I’m willing to bet that you in fact do have a hand. And, if really and truly not, I happen to have two on offer.

So, I suppose, in the end what I think my particular heart aches for is, once again, more of yours. I also think that our hearts are full of all sorts of things. Some things good, most things really great, but a few things that are a little less positive. I want to see it all. I want to feel it all. I want to know if you feel like shit. Let’s laugh about it. Let’s troubleshoot it. Let’s google “super pumped up counselor” together. At some point it is going to have to happen. So let’s do it now, start the walk to the other side, then we can ride all the rainbow coloured unicorns of positivity we want while being coached to super stardom. Promise.

xo J

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LOVE

So I have a few weeks away from clinic and call, and it’s mid month, these two things are working out well for my mind to expand and wander. Lucky me.

I have always loved learning about the heart. First, it was purely practical. It was its physiology. Physiology is the study of the functions and actions of living things and all the phenomena involved in these. Rad right? I spent hours drawing arrows to and from the heart trying to memorize its patterns and flows. To this day I love those old medical drawings of hearts. There is something so grand and noble about them.

As I went further on in life and medicine, as many stories go, I had other interactions with the heart. Several times, it stopped beating. Oh how hard it is when it stops beating; whispering on my grandfather’s chest in that ICU when we knew the stop was near, holding my Dad in that ICU waiting room when it did, driving away from my grandmother’s hospital bed, knowing. Before any of this, in a state of constant effort to keep doors shut I suspect, walking that horse around that ring. My partner, my love. Those huge brown eyes that saw me. Knowing that when our walk was done, a needle would be placed and that would be that. Pets, friendships, loves, ideals, beliefs, these all have beating hearts. Some stop sometimes.

Of course, some start sometimes. Sometimes totally for the first time. Sometimes anew.

These days, I spending a lot of time listening to those first beats. Lucky me.

When you are my age, with my heart, having seen hearts stop and seen hearts start, you find yourself wanting to seek more, about the heart.

I’ve been doing this most wonderful meditation by Bree Melanson for the last few months. Of course, those that have had different educations or interests think of the heart a bit differently: as our true intelligence, as the seed of the soul, as a magnetic field, as a true north, as our truest selves. They talk of being wholehearted, exploring your heartspace, being heartfelt. Having thoroughly explored the terrain of the heart from the outside looking in in my twenties, I’m enjoying being guided through it a new way now, from the inside out.

Those of us who seek and wander, well honestly all of us, at some point in our lives will wonder about our purpose. We will question. I have been wrestling with this for a few years now. It’s been a little dance. Picture a cat and mouse near a wood pile. The cat sits quietly, waits, but eventually runs out of patience or senses an opportunity, so it pounces. Mouse darts behind wood. Elusive. Over and over. Cat gets tired, moves on to easier pursuits, like say, a career in medicine.

But this morning I had a clearer thought: what if my purpose is just love? Of course I place the just there as a placeholder for my hesitation with this idea and as a escape hatch for those back in the first world. That practical world. With all my education and training and privilege and ability, how could my purpose be simply love? Well, I don’t know, but I think it might be.

Purpose: the reason for which something exists.

Given my conditioned hesitation, still sitting and contemplating this morning, I sought to find evidence. Where have I felt love and did it feel like truth? This may seem a ridiculous question, but it wasn’t necessarily for me. I walked through all the corners of my memories and tried to move boxes and make a list. It was a little scary to realize the difficulty I had in doing this. Not because it, love, didn’t occur, but because, I think maybe, often I was too afraid to register it. Why? Another blog post maybe, hey?

But I pushed harder. That hand around my arm on those bus rides. Those wondrous birthdays. The letter given. When they hunted down the Thriller album for me. My hand and head on his warm neck. My kids, always. It was a good start.

Then of course I realized more of the point, when did I give it and how did that feel? Well, I gave it to all those goodbyes, some hellos, in that room, to her in the bathtub, to him in the car, to him on that day, every time I closed that front door for the night, and I give it to my patients and to my kids, always.

I feel it around me if I stop to.

So it is there. It is what I crave. And when it goes missing, I fade.

Is it a reasonable expectation to ask that love be there in your every day experience? Is that a reasonable ideal? Is it okay if it just bookends your days or if it just drops in unexpectedly from time to time? I suppose it depends on your soul doesn’t it? I don’t think it is okay for mine. It is the rod with which I divine. When I’ve been lost from love, I’ve simply been lost.

You can see why I had such a beautiful morning now can’t you?

Because here’s the exquisite gift (especially for yours truly) that I may be finally understanding: I have full control over LOVE. Because love is great to receive, yes, like really yes, but it is equally as great to give. So, in some ways, I can just relax. I have more understanding than I did yesterday and what has come to the light is, in fact, beautifully in reach. Of course, it is not that simple. It never is, is it. There is also a very big risk (especially for yours truly). The risk of letting the pain of all those stopped beats, and knowing there will be more, stand between me and my purpose.

Photo by Wyron A on Unsplash

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Rescue me, sort of.

Okay, so let’s see if we can do this; clear something up, if you will. And to be extra clear, the only person demanding this clarification is myself. Haha. And, yes, I am giggling to myself as I write that; me, myself, and I are such entertainment to each other. I/we digress …

I write a lot, some might even offer ‘exclusively’, about women and the power I believe they have. True. However, let us not be witless enough to extend that observation to believe I wish the average man any harm at all. Hells no my beauties; for the love of all that is sacred, that would be horrid. No, no, my friends, I really love men. Let me try to explain.

I am exquisitely feminine, yes. I want fuchsia, I want perfume, I want glitter, I want all my senses involved in every experience, I write best when my nails are blood red and I have candles and roses, I cry equally easily in joy and pain, yes. And what else this means is that I want to be paired with the masculine. I crave its energy.

You remember that post about Outlander? Ya, I’m still watching it. Yes, I am. Don’t you dare judge me. But seriously, I think testosterone actually oozes out of the screen when you watch it. Oh dear lovelies, yes, dirt, sweat, battle, blood, strength, assertion, confidence, piercing lust; the primality of it all is sweet, sweet perfection, Please, sweep me up, and rescue me right the fuck away.

This may appear confusing, a paradox; an urgency to declare a woman’s power but also an obsession with a swift rescue in the arms of a man? Maybe. But, maybe not.

Of course, I can only speak for me and perhaps some of the others who I believe I’ve seen, but consider the life of a woman*, at least a great deal of the time. How often do we feel threat? It’s hard to know, but I think if we paid attention, it might be often. If you are a man, and you have a woman in your life, consider this: how good is she at sensing the surroundings compared to you? Who smells foul odours first? Who notices when something is decaying in the pantry? Who startles awake more often at night? Who seems to hear the kids cry before they even do? Who could close their eyes and tell you every detail of your living room and be immediately aware when the smallest of things is shifted? Her. She can.

We often laugh this off as the way of a woman or the way of a mother, but, could it be she is like this because she is on alert for danger instinctively and always? And, if so, what is unique about the danger she is trying to tune herself into? I think maybe it is to heart and soul at the very least, and sadly to more than that often.

So then, I also think that when I sit down to write, mostly ragey, pleading pieces escape from my fingertips because not only do I yearn to call my women to power, but I also ache to summon my men. I want to discern that my sides are faithfully flanked by my loyal Scottish clansmen as I stride forward in purpose. With their power beside me, I am more in my own. Now, luckily, I do have these men, of course I do. I do. I see you, I know you are there, I love that you are, thank you. Of course, I most certainly married the best of them. I wish this for all women who wish for the same.

As a man, if you’ve read this far and are intrigued, you might wonder, how do I join these admirable ranks? Honestly, if you are wondering this, hon, you’re likely already there, we thank you. But to be certain, here’s what I think the secret is: we women want to feel that if we were being threatened by some source of evil, you wouldn’t hesitate a bloody goddamn second to step up and maim that motherfucker. Ya, that’s right. But, that’s not it. What is it, is that you would do this, but not because you felt us weak. Not because you didn’t think we could slay that asshole ourselves. You would do this because when you completely and utterly revere something you are drawn to protect it, fiercely.

Indulge me in another pop culture example. The Queen’s Gambit. Now she goes through some shit, eh? There are some demons that writhe inside and need taming, yes? She’s obviously a goddamn goddess though, concur? Right. And she sorts it all out. Yup. But that scene where she is eye to eye with her greatest challenge and she has her sides flanked by those who love her and see her, that’s the nugget. That’s how we are to work together here. Getting it now?

Or have I confused you further? Again, most of you who are still reading are likely just nodding away and smiling knowingly, thank you.

So, let’s summarize. A newsreel celebrates a man who did something in history but also murdered a woman? Slay. Your daughter flexes her creative spirit but is told it’s not quite right by her teacher? Armour up. Your wife comes downstairs after another meeting that has left her empty and tired, dejected and angry? Push her up against the counter, look her in the eye, and ask what to put in your sight. Properly reinforce a woman and you’ll watch her step into her grace and power, in part, because of yours. The rewards will be rich for you both.

My last observation I’ll offer is that, those battlefields above will be the easy ones. Where you both may struggle more is on the field of intimacy. For one, if you find yourself lucky enough to be in any woman’s army, you must clearly know that that doesn’t mean she has any desire for you to be near her bed. If you have any hope of real intimacy with her you must understand this in your core. Once you do, however, well, lucky you. Now, if, however, you are the glorious Scotsman (see what I did there??) who gains entry to the lair, you will come to know that this is where you may be most called to fight. Because this terrain has a rich history, it is prone to hauntings and certainly has its fair share of land mines. It may very well be the last place she rises to exert her rule. Not a place for the faint of heart. You may come there in full enchantment, as does she, but don’t forget her senses can fool her. They can lapse briefly towards danger, they can loop back the wrong way around. Be wary of this, reassure them, draw her goddess forth. Remember she wants protection, not out of concern of weakness, out of reverence.

So, hopefully, there we have it. How women can demand power whilst also desiring protection. How men can provide protection whilst also servicing power. Easy peasy, yes?

xo

J

[*Ok, sidebar. I can only speak to my own twisted little thoughts. So, I’m mostly talking to ‘you’ as if you are a man. Which of course is a vast generality and not applicable to a beautiful ton of situations. However, this is where I’m at. Similarly, I can’t speak to how men feel. Duh. But let’s just agree to hear me out about this one sliver of the population who might know what it is to feel what I’m talking about and the other sliver of the population who reveres them.]

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Chaos / Vibrancy

On sitting up from Savasana I opened my eyes and saw outside. The mist was blowing up the mountain, the rain, light but dense, was falling the opposite way, down. Trees were swaying in the wind. The yellow tree had one side full and one side with all leaves lost. Hummingbirds were swirling around the feeders but not landing. I knew if I were to turn on the TV it would report a virus walking over countries, weather phenomena, and humans talking at each other trying to control the uncontrollable. There was somehow an elastic hanging off our crown molding.

The word came to mind again: Chaos. It had first come to mind a week ago, on this same mat. And since then I had been thinking about it. Thinking about me in it. Wondering if I could exist in it. Or do more than exist, thrive.

CHAOS: A state of total confusion with no order.

OR

CHAOS: Behavior so unpredictable as to appear random, owing to great sensitivity to small changes in conditions.

Before I was thinking about chaos I was thinking about another word, another want really. Vibrancy.

VIBRANCY: The quality of being bright and strong.

OR

VIBRANCY: The state of being full of energy and life.

As I sat longer with the wash of movement and contemplation still settling over me, I had another thought: could the vibrancy I seek already be here in the chaos?

What could be more full of energy and life than confusion and disorder? What could be more strong than unpredictable behaviour in response to small changes in conditions? What is more bright, fun and full of life than the unpredictable, the random, the changing?

How delicious. How sumptuous.

Chaos or vibrancy? You decide.

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Can you stand it

I want you as a brother
Can you bear to stand it
I want you for my answers
Truth free of lover's thrift

Can this thing be done
Can we fool boredom's fake lust
Are you considering my offer
Or just leaving moments to rust

I want you as a brother
Lended strength without request
I want you at ten pm
My head unbound on shoulder, on chest

Ya we locked eyes once
Sweet, subtle and swift
You didn't see what you thought hon
That wasn't a mistress's gift

I want you as a brother
Much older, taller, stronger
I want you not as ever had before
But for an eternity longer
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She kneels.

She kneels over him.

Here many times before; starting to feel like unknown territory.

The unfamiliarity so needed.

The light is such that she can’t quite see his eyes. If there were more light, she wonders. He is there in complete peace. A quiet ocean depth that holds its tempest above. A million miles can be traveled in a moment and she goes there and back.

She has walked most the way through life with a holographic appearance of certainty and destination. Decisions come easily as, really never are there hard ones. Her fire-lit belly longs over and over for a day that involves just one hard one rather than the parade of mediocre constantly presented. So, here, both he and she often fall mistakenly into the lull that she is the same. Not interested in the delicate or suggested. Not meek.

Trouble is, this is the armory.

Tonight, she wants to wipe it all blank and start again. To pluck the dead buds, leach out the poison, to blood let. How frustrating the path that leads to the writer’s sharpened tongue also the one that restrains arms and bodies from the intimate. To feel hands for the first time; rough and warm and firm. To feel lips for the first time, tentatively asking. To be inhabited as a holy land. And to believe in that land. To do all of this completely bare; new skin breathing free from the armor pieces previously locked in place. No sense of wondering if the hands that land on it will be marveled or not.

So she stares harder. The clouds move slowly. Wind blows through the window and the moon’s light enters instructively into the room. Eyes are seen. He knows all of this and more still, and just lies in wait. And what she has been so worried about happens; she cries. She can’t stop. Her hair falls in her face and sticks to her cheek. Her hands brace her panting chest on his. She can’t believe it happened, she can’t believe it keeps her still, she wants anger and strength, and fiercely hates that she knows that means surrender. Tonight. Another million miles crossed.

She bends down. His hands find that sacred no man’s land. She rests her forehead on his and asks someone, anyone, to lead her the rest of the way.

Photo by Fezbot2000 on Unsplash

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Muse-ic (3): Dance me purple.

You tipped your hat. A grin. A smirk. Your age completely vanished. Or maybe that was a wish for mine. You were a summer, an odyssey, an heirloom, everyone’s all at once. We took our breath in, you grew. We let it out, you grew. Knowing, way-finding, and great. Such expectation, such tempered grace. There was solace. Grief everywhere, grief vanished. We were doused in purple.

My joy is like your strut. Evolved, jilted, my own. Your stage, I wonder, your home or your torment. Which songs did you love, which ones did you loathe? The ridiculous interrogation. If time here is brief, what moves do we make? Wide grin, heel toe, heel toe, waggle of the hips, shake of the finger. Chest puffed. Dad danced. Shiny, glowing, purple.

In truth I might long to have your life, in truth not all of it, only the part I’ve made up. The last bit, seemed, other worldly. The selfishness in that obscene. But you appeared to see, to feel, to write. You danced. An impeccable inner world animated to the best of life by brothers. Kissing on lips, lingering in embraces, knowing when the rest had no clue. You must have felt pain. Common as it is. I think, yes?, you wrote about it. Words deep and pressing, yet always angled up, or was that the role of your kin? You puffed our chests, sparkled us purple.

I would like to believe you are somewhere else now. I would like to believe I could do all that. Belief sits out of grasp. I wish you could grab my cheeks, look in the eye, confer, lead, and attend. The selfishness in that obscene. I was once on your bus. I had no clue, nor did you, nor did they. No one did yet. Now though, crystal water clear. I want to write how you dance. No care but all intention and attention. Turn the dust violet, throw glitter across the page, colour my words purple.

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Muse-ic (2)

I have this vision that I think of often, it evolves. There’s a serene woman, tall, blonde, who is walking through tall green grass. Her feet fall on warm, fresh, soft, earth. It’s morning, the sunlight is soft and glistening. The grass gently moves, there is the faintest but freshest of breezes. The dew is slowing rising. It will be a warm day. Among the tall blades there are sparse wildflowers, insects zagging and the odd petal that has broken loose. A butterfly finds its way in front of her, leads the way then dashes away. She walks toward something, not away. She wears a long, sheer, white, draped cover of sorts. Underneath, I’m not sure. If she lifted her arms they would look like beautifully flowing wings in the hot summer air. But she doesn’t lift her arms as they are each outstretched to something. Her hands hold other hands on either side. Smaller hands. Hands of children. On each side two, maybe three, small beings who walk with her. They smile, they laugh at the creatures, try to catch some of them. One of them hums or sings on and off. Some are hers, others not. Sometimes, behind them, right at her right heel walks a jet black jaguar. He is friend, not foe.

[image: differencecamp.com]

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We did the dance

So you walk with me, who cares

So I run to you, who cares

That moment where we danced

Perhaps, not ours to share

Pick up your bag, softly close the door

Go to the dessert, go, to more

Regret is not an option here

No one knows the ahead

You took the hand, we did the dance

You didn’t spin, you just lead

Was I awake then, or am I now

Can then have happened, or is it now

That moment where we were

Intertwined but far apart

It’s ok, it’s ok, I go there too       

A different will takes me to you

Regret is not an option here

No one knows the ahead

You took the hand, we did the dance

You didn’t spin, you just lead

I’m on the path, you’re there

Of course I care,  I care

That moment, we never had

Surrender, not in the deck

But it does dance, in another place

Breath let out, hands on face

Go there, to the dessert

Will change to the ahead

Breath let out, hands on face

I want to be spun, want to be lead

[Photo by Preillumination SeTh on Unsplash]