A River Runs Through Her

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I once wrote a poem about myself as a river. It was convincing, I think. And I felt it. Powerfully.

But.

Maybe it’s smaller, like a brook. A small meandering gentle flowing place to dip my toes and wash my blues away.

Smooth river stones. Winking diamond reflections as the water moseys by.

I feel small. I feel herded, funneled, mined by corporations who only know me by what I buy, watch, listen to.

I just want to float. I want to feel free enough to catch the rays as I float on by all of the glut and greed. I only need enough. Enough love. Enough money. Enough creativity. Just … enough to sustain my spirit and body. Enough to help the people who need it.

I need rest. I haven’t had rest in months. I haven’t had a vacation of any kind in years. I need rest before my spirit gives up. Before my body gives out.

I also need to find out where I dropped my faith and hope. They are stones in the brook, somewhere. I’ll keep looking, before it’s too late.

 

 

She Wanders a Little

wildhair

I told my therapist about my inward energy. “I’m in a downward cycle,” I said. “That’s what I call it.” She already knew. I’m normally big and outwards. I was more pensive, and my responses measured.

“Not like when I was younger. Not downward like that.” Or something like that. And what I mean is, I don’t rock in a dark bathroom hurting myself anymore, like I did when I was in my twenties and didn’t understand what all of these …. feelings? … were. Continue reading

The Dark Side of Light

heatherblue

I don’t know anymore what it means to not worry. I worry about everything. I think this is supposed to be one of the downsides of being a sensitive person. The way I figure it, sensitive people go through life like an open wound, raw, gaping. Sometimes we manage to sew ourselves up enough to keep it together.

The gift of being sensitive is in feeling good when you help somebody. Or loving so hard and so much that you know that no person has loved as hard and much as you are “right now.” And the sensual side of sensitivity certainly has its advantages when it comes to touch and taste.

But the downsides are so hard, y’all. I try to live in this worry. It’s more like carrying a load than living inside of something. If you live inside of something, then you at least get to rest sometimes. You at least get to eat and sleep. This is more like carrying something. When you carry something, even if it’s small, if you carry it long enough, or in the wrong way, it can become heavy.

It can make you doubt yourself and question your worth. It can make you feel like everybody you care about will be snatched away because you don’t deserve them.

There is a dark side to the light of looking into the world with sensitive eyes. Each thing is either brilliant and blinding, or it is devoid of even a tiny flame. And flames cast shadows.

There’s good news though. I used to wait for a rope to be dropped down to me. These days, I find the damned rope or holler up to somebody to toss one down.

I’m still journaling. Or I should say, I’m back to journaling. As you can see, I’m back to blogging, too.

I hope to catch up in here. My sensual side needs some stroking. My brain has been focused on the daily struggles of just getting through life. I want to come back here and say hello. I missed you.

How are you today?

 

The Wabi-Sabi Scar

We poured out our hearts in whispers.  You spoke, and I listened to your words, as we were sinking into the marshmallow bed.  Our faces were shadows only inches apart, and the room was quiet the way an adult’s bedroom is at night – all fan whirs and cotton sheet friction, and breathing.

Then I spoke and you listened.  Deeply.  Our perspectives were different, but our hearts in synchronization.

We talked about that time.  That scar.  The bad one.   And how it looked different from our respective views.  And then you said something like, our love has been tended carefully, like a bonsai tree.  Our love is like a wabi-sabi bowl, more beautiful for the broken part that was fixed.  And I imagined the crack that split us almost in half, now filled with gold.  Precious, strong, beautiful.  And I pondered that for a moment, ready to hold it a bit closer and replace my scar with a vein of gold.  Then you said that we, us, our love, is entwined … we are part of each other.  So tangled up and inseparable.  And I saw us, like a Klimt painting, gold swirls and stars, unable to tell where you end and I begin, as we float through the universe enveloped in a blanket of trust and love.  And as if on cue, you said that if you were to die and your spirit was floating around out there, that you would wait for me.   You would wait for my spirit to come find you when it was time and we would spend our time in the other-ether together.  Or something so close to that.  And I kept trying to repeat the last thing you said in my head so I wouldn’t forget it and could write it in our journal.  Then I chided myself for not just enjoying the moment and feeling compelled to record everything, which isn’t the same as engraving it on my heart.  So I just lay there, looking at the dark shape of your head and listened to your sweet protestations.  About Hindu re-incarnation and finding each other sooner next time.

I confessed to you – about then, the “bad” then … about something the scar left behind.  The thought that you chose me for this life … but the idea lingered that you saved your ether for her.  Maybe it’s selfish to want you throughout whatever transformations our souls will take (if any), but I can’t help myself, but I also couldn’t ask you for it.  And I cried, because you said it without even knowing I was living with that pain.  You reached out your fingers and touched that hurt with salve, easing the burn.  And I cried.  And you put your lips in my hair and told me how well we fit and how glad you are that we fought so hard for the us we are now.  And I melted into your embrace.

I told you about how I don’t like to write about deeply personal things in my blogs like I used to.  It feels so much more dangerous now than it once was.  And I wondered if writing about what has passed between us tonight was a mistake.  Or somehow cheapened it.  Or maybe it was a weird kind of bragging about recovering love from ashes.  But then I decided that I would write it all down because I wanted to remember it.  And I was also writing it for couples who are in a place that feels so dark and desperate they don’t think they will ever recover, because we did.

Tomorrow I am going to write some of the things you said into our couple’s journal.  I want to keep it close and remind myself that there is always light, even on a very dark night.

I’m super tired and can’t find the energy to look for an image to put with this or proofread it.  Goodnight ❤

Leting Go – Mostly