The Journey A little girl scared helpless, powerless at the mercy of abusers. She longs to be free. A young woman grows angry, despondent at the mercy of the bottle. She dreams of revenge. A brave woman hopes sober, transforming at the mercy of resistance. She claims her future. A wise woman knows blessings, gratitude… Continue reading POEM: The Journey
Frozen in place by the chill of the night
the snow angel rests in the arms of the tree.
Gazing at her I wondered
Is she cold like me?
Are her insides in knots?
Does she worry if the sun will release her so she can fly away free?
Then I noticed that she was relaxed
trusting in the strength of the tree.
She lay there, face open, aimed at the sky
soaking in the beams of the sun.
I internalized how mindfully this angel rests
knowing she is protected
by the deer, the fox, and the tiger
protective and kind
gentle yet fierce.
In an awakened instant
that although she is frozen by the chill of the night
this is her time to rest.
I knew that just like the intense springtime sun
relief is actively occurring
melting my gridlocked existence of powerlessness away.
I hear in…
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This deeply resonates with me.
Exhaustion runs deep, into my core, my blood, bones, every atom of my being. I am tired. Even with enough sleep, I am tired. Winter’s weariness? Failures of self?
“It hard being me,” I lament to a friend, and whisper out-loud to the gods. It is hard being me, and I’m tired of it.
My thoughts tend to believe the worst every time, and that tendency consumes me in winter. Bleakness of soul matches the frigid temps. The havoc of this engulfs me in ways that wreck relationships. Others there willing to love, offering warmth and real caring, are shoved away brusquely. My best feature is turning away from you coldly.
Is that all there is left from childhood? Taking my trust, only coldness remains. I need you to keep away from me. Aloof, yet needy. It is so tiring being me. Dreaming of being someone else consumes me once…
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The healing power of perseverance…
Eight years of muscle straining, oxygen deprived, mind exploding, grief-laden work to manage the grip of the skeleton hands of the past.
The rocky terrain and deep crevasses that held the traps of programmed words ready to pull me down into oblivion were navigated at a snail’s pace of impatient mindfulness.
Deafening winds and echoes of the past kept knocking me down, pushing me sideways, making it hard to grip the rope.
After every storm passed
I took the time to rest in the snow caves of acceptance.
So many times, wanting to give up, give in to the beast of symptoms.
But trusting, knowing, that my Sherpa would guide me through the sharpest peaks and deepest valleys.
Summiting many times, thinking there were no more hidden mountains.
Then catching glimpse of the last, gnarly climb looming just around the bend.
Everything inside me screams, “No, leave it!”
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I haven’t been posting much lately because I’ve felt like I have nothing to write about. Nothing much has been happening in my life these past few months – other than my abusive brother contacting me, that is, which I just wrote about. Then there’s the publication of my book and the two readings I… Continue reading Stability is a Good Thing