Reality Bites

      

      Why do I read the blogs I read?  Is it for the patterns, be they knitting, crochet, sewing, or anything else that takes my fancy?  Is it for the instruction somehow?  This is how we do this thing…  Is it for the recipes?  Is it for the conversation and drama?  The look into someone else’s life? 

      Maybe a better question would be why do I write this stuff myself…

      Why do I read it? 

      Because I like to learn about the person I am dealing with as it gives me a better understanding of where they are coming from w the way they are teaching and/or explaining something…because it is entertaining…because I simply like to learn and know how other people deal w different situations…I like to compare my personal level of insanity to someone else’s level of insanity in order to get a comparative shot to see if I am over the top or just in the groove…because feeling as if I know the person about whom I am reading makes me feel move involved and more connected…and it makes me want to reach out and connect w the person I am reading about in some way.

      Would I tweet or update facebook about every little detail, intimate or not, of my life?  No.  There are things I do keep private…but then again…I do not mind people having some information.  I will never give you blow by blow details of what goes on in my bedroom…but I am proud enough to let everyone know that my man really does it for me in so many ways…

      I like being able to read the drama and get the recipes.  I enjoy the process that goes into creating objects…and the cat the knitter lives w while she creates.  I want to know about the new pieces of art, as well as life w the puppy.   Some days I need to hear about another knitter, what goes on in her life, how her children and significant others act and react.  I need to see what other artists are doing and how things are affecting them in their daily lives as they pursue their art.  I can go on and on, linking to hundreds of other sites.

      I may not read each and every blog every single day, but I do go back to the blogs I follow, and I read.  It uplifts me.  It centers me.  It makes me grateful for the things in my life.  It gives me new ideas.  It refreshes me.

      Now, why do I write this stuff myself?  It started out as a way to get things out of my system.  Writing morning pages simply was not enough.  I had a lot more to get out of my system…and I needed a more public forum in order to keep me honest, to keep me writing, to keep me motivated.  Then I started to get feedback from what I wrote…I was helping others by working through my own stuff.  Some days I do get up and think, no, I won’t touch that in a public forum…and then after thinking about it for awhile, I find myself thinking what if Shelia in the Outback needs to hear what I went through and how I dealt w it in order to help her work through her own issues?  It’s not so farfetched to believe that I can be that beating of the butterfly’s wing for someone else.

      Why do you do what you do?  Why do you read blogs, or tweets, or facebook updates, or anything else?  Why do you post?  Or do you?  Do you simply read and go on w your day?  Do you comment on other’s posts?  What do you do?  How are you connected?

My Weird Writing Hiatus

 This is my picture...I took it...I can't even tell you what park we were at...but it's all me.  As in, do not use without permission from me...thank you...

          I have been writing, as you can read here on this blog, duh, but I have not really been “writing” … my own personal work…that script…that novel…or two…the book, BOOKS, of poetry that need to be typed up and put into the proper format…and if we go there…I have cabinet after cabinet FULL of short stories in need of rewriting and revamping and setting it all up into a decent format for publishing…not to mention a ton of knitting patterns to format and prepare for publication as well…

          I have been swimming in this big big pond, mentally, for several months.  I mean, months and months.  It’s the whole—am I really good enough to do this?

          I am lucky to have a rather large community around me, not just of people who are actually ‘recognized’ as writers, but of artists of all flavors, glass workers, painters, sketchers, jewelry makers, knitters, seamtresses, potters, so on and so on.  You get my point.  I have really creative people around me—and I love that.     

          But, I’m just a girl…to quote Gwen Stefani…  and I get worried and scared and obsessed about not being good enough…not writing well enough…not writing enough…not being able to perform…not being able to produce…blah blah blah blah.

          I have that very unique ability—or I did, since my current boyfriend is so far above doing this—to date and/or to live w men who love to play the I am so superior to you card.  R has a clue as to how intelligent and how vast the weird knowledge in my head really can be…now and then…when I spring things on him from nowhere…BUT…in my past…the jerks I lived w made me feel like an utter …idiot…not much farther up the food chain than a complete mental retard…and I mean, I married that one man because he completely stripped me of any sense of self…then went on to the other man who did nothing but repeat everything negative the ex-husband ever said or did –with none of the charm or the grace that the ex-husband could throw up at a moment’s notice.  Despite my complete assertion that I really should have quit school at 12—since I swear I did not learn ANYTHING the rest of my school career that I did not teach myself—or find outside a classroom (example: physics club was great—but I never took physics; I joined the club w my best friend because she took physics and wanted me to know what was going on so I could help her study…it worked.), I do tend to feel under-educated at times.  Just because my public school education SUCKED does not mean I did not educate myself…because I did, I do…I always have and I completely plan to continue to do so for the rest of my life.  But still…I have qualms…because I fall into the trap of believing other people, instead of my own heart and my own self.

          Anyway…it is not difficult at times to make me feel inadequate.  I am growing out of that—I am very empowered—I am so very good at empowering others—and I am learning from what I am teaching others…finally.  Having R as a stabilizing force every day really helps.  I have spent how much time, if you have followed this blog for awhile, participating in groups to help me expand, to help me find what I am after, what I want and how to get there.  Ok, so I do not have the how to get there down 100%--but I am getting there.  I have made so much progress in the past two years…I am utterly amazed.

          BUT—where I started out was this…I worry…am I good enough to be a writer?  Do I need to participate in writing groups?  I am completely grateful to SoulFoodCafe and Heather Blakey.  It is because of this group I finally found my own voice.  It is Kerry Vincent who has had the biggest impact on me though.

          Kerry is the one who told me, who tells me, just to write…to write and to write and to write some more, to just keep writing.  Patti Digh says the same thing here…more or less.

          That is not what you find whenever you talk to anyone who is a writer, who wants to be a writer, who has anything to do with ‘the writing business’.  You need classes…you need degrees…you need to belong to this group…you need to belong to this association and that association…you need to attend seminars and you need to subscribe to magazines and…you need to do this and you need to do that…and you need to read this book to tell you what you need to do and you need to follow this writer because she will tell you all the tips and trade secrets and you need to read this blog because this is all inside information…and you need to make sure you have a public presence and you need to network and market and pimp pimp pimp pimp yourself and even then you need to do so much more work before anyone will even so much as think about glancing your way, much less thinking about publishing you in any way…and…and…and…

          Now, I am all for improving yourself.  I am so all about learning everything you can.  I am all for making sure you get a book deal or your poetry published or your article published.  I am all for being paid to write, got it?  However, at some point, you have to draw the line, or you lose you, you lose your mind, you lose the desire to write, too caught up in too many other things...

          Here is my line.  __________________________________

See it?  Yep.  This is me, your freak of the week, extraordinaire.  Here is my line.  This is my hiatus.

          Yes.  I subscribe to two, maybe three (I am never sure til they arrive on the door step) writers/writing magazines.  I subscribe to more farm and home magazines than I do writing magazines, hint hint.  I’d rather learn about composting cow manure and which chickens to buy to have a good flock than listen to one more exhortation about this e-class or this master’s program or this conference…My writing magazines actually tend to sit around before I remember they are there and I go flip through them.  Yes, as I knew when I freaked out and ordered them, they are a waste of my time and my money.  But I felt more…writerly after I ordered my subscriptions…I felt more…proactive and more involved in my writing career…

          Yes, in the past couple years, in fact, not all that long ago—and if I walked into a book store in 5 minutes I would still do it—I have bought tons of writers and writing books.  Eric Maisel.  Peter Elbow.  Natalie Goldberg.  Julia Cameron. Ursula Le Guin.  Cindy Rushton.  I have even bought writing books for E and N for when they are old enough to want to read them.  Gail Carson Levine wrote it: ‘Writing Magic’ just for them, I swear.

          This does not even begin to tap the number of writers on writing (oh, Mr. Stephen King, anyone?) that I currently have on my bookshelves.  This does not touch the actual textbooks I have on writing, be it essays to term papers to thesis construction to dissertation presentation…from writing short stories to noveling to script writing…and everywhere in between…I have as many of the angles that I know about covered…in every way I can think to have them covered.  I am not saying I have read every single one of them from cover to cover, but I am getting there.

          I started to freak out a bit at the beginning of this year, with all my writing goals.  It seems that once I saw these goals as actually attainable, I started to pull back, pull away, fighting the forward motion.  Strange, huh?  No—not really.  I should know…I see it every day…in clients, in friends, in family members, on tv…whatever, wherever.  It seems on the whole we are far more afraid of success than we are of failure.

          It dawned on me, especially yesterday when I was playing 8 Things with the Magpie Girl, that if the only ‘official’ criteria to be a “real writer” is to be published in, like, an actual printed thing of some sort…be it book or magazine…much less an online source, other than your own personal blog or what have you…then I am a writer.  If being a “real writer” is measured by the whole have you actually been paid money to write for publication…then I am a writer.  I fell into those jobs, more or less.  I didn’t make much money.  Some of it was barter.  BUT…I did do it.  It counts.

          Hey, look at what I do now.  I actually do get paid to write guided meditations for people.  I get paid to write lots of different things for people…do they get published anywhere?  No.  They are written specifically for one person for that person’s specific needs and/or reason. 

          Do I write for my own edification?  Of course.  Otherwise, I’d have given up on NaNoWriMo, much as I gave up on ScriptFrenzy last month—even though I contend that once I am more familiar w the medium, I won’t abandon things so quickly—as in—there is always next year!

          Which brings me here, to my hiatus…the more I stress out about I have to be a visible presence online and pimp myself and my writing, the more I do not want to write.  About the time this mélange began to trickle into my world, I started to find all sorts of articles about writers getting actual in print book deals—with no social media networking to be found.  Like this one.  I have a friend, who wishes to remain anonymous at all times, who writes romance novels…I am finding I have many friends who work diligently at their writing, use completely obtuse pen names, and never mention their writing to anyone.  They simply write…and keep writing.  Period.  Some with no thoughts to ever publishing at all.  *GASP!*  snicker…

          One trigger for me recently is my romance writing friend who wants no one to ever look at her, much less know her name, who knows this next novel she is about to finish will be the one that sells and sells big.  I have been sending her books on writing and hope and who knows what else, for ages.  She has taken my advice and written…and written…and has kept writing.  She is doing what I should be doing.  Writing.  She may have worries about how will I get this published when I am done—but she is finishing it while she worries.  A little bit every day.  She is not worried about her writing group…or belong to the Romance Writers of America organization…or if she she get a subscription to Writer’s Digest or any other trade magazine…Sure, she wants to be published, but she won’t be doing any book signing tours or anything.  We hermits must stick together, you see.  It does not in any way make her less a writer …do you see?

          So, my own personal hiatus is to stop being driven to write in order to produce something for someone that really does not click w me or work for me…instead of working on my own writing…I will stop pursuing the education of the writer and I will be the writer.  I will stop trying to network and market and plug myself…not entirely…because, well, I just can’t anyway.  For me to not blog at this point in my life is like saying every single pen in the house is out of ink…and all my bottles of ink have gone dry…then they put me in a dungeon and my feces won’t stick to the walls when I use it to write with sort of scenario (what?  You’ve never seen the movie Quills?)

          If you hear less from me, or more from me, or different things from me, consider yourself lucky.  If not, oh well, at least you know I am working…and very happy about that.

Writers Books, Really

Did I really say I was not going to buy any other writing or writers books this year? Really? Surely I was under the influence of something when I said that, right?
Oh, I know. I was completely in my right mind when I said it. I said no more books, unless absolutely necessary. It’s February. February. On my own, not gifted to me, nor given by me as gifts, I have purchased: knitting books, books on autism and aspergers, fiction, biographies, auto-biographies, writer’s books, computer books (which may be the only real books I ‘should’ have been buying anyway), books to aid my art, homesteading books, diy books, cook books, French girl books…and it is only February. Me saying I won’t be buying any books is tantamount to the sky falling in and squishing us all into little bugs.

I so should have known better. It gets worse. I can justify books bought for different groups…but when I reach amazon.com, I have to have something to qualify for the $25 free shipping gimmick…and a great many of my books are bought…pre-loved…cutting down on clutter I can do, but books…books are life…they are education…they thrive in my environment…and I thrive in theirs…

Today I found out I really do need to learn to get along w Outlook better. I am starting to attend more webinars and other things…I am starting to have a schedule that extends farther than just the next couple days ahead. I am starting to need to actually plan things out better. My poor boyfriend…he is actually going to have to start scheduling things w me around my schedule. After not really having much of a schedule for so many years, this is sort of fun, on many levels. I just have to get myself a bit more organized. Not as difficult as it sounds. I may always feel as if I am behind, but when it comes down to getting something done, I do manage to get things done by deadline.

And now, back to work. So many things to do, other than lament my love of books.

I Have To Mention

There is a pink elephant in the room.  Not a pale, washed out pastel pink.  But a deeply blooming rosy pink, hovering somewhere between mauve and mulberry and magenta.  This elephant, wonderful creature that she is, simply walked into my bedroom the other day.  She walked in, pulled herself up a chair, set up her easel and her inks and started to paint these incredible black on white landscapes.  I am left wondering if she will go back later to add color to them.  Will she be around that long?

            I know why she is here.  I know what she represents.  I have already broached the subject with the other person involved in this situation.  It is quite difficult to ignore something so large in the room.  Even if I cannot come right out and say, hey, this is why she is sitting there, all patient and calm, waiting for me to be able to say this one thing to you.  At least I made certain to mention her presence, so when the time comes to say, hey, doesn’t that elephant paint the prettiest of pictures, I will have already laid the groundwork.

            Not that that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.  It is hard to want something so very badly, knowing the other person doesn’t.  But then again, that is me. 

            Pray for us, and our lovely pink elephant…

            She really does have an exceptional talent with these landscapes she paints.  It’s amazing…

Coming To An End

I grow weary here

you throwing wrench after wrench

in the plans I continue to make

with the love of my life

why is it your presence

and your anger

that drives the wheels

round and round

why hasn’t anyone pulled the rug

out from under you

put you in your place

smacked you in the face

and told you

you are no queen

you do not rule here

no

these are not friends you have

they are sycophants

people too afraid

to do anything more

than your bidding

whatever it takes

to appease your temper

to stay out of your angry flow

now I have a good man

now I have plans for my future

for the future of my family

which includes more room

to grow

and yet

and yet

patience is called for

because of some irate cow

who rides around on her high horse

and refuses to get down

it would break her heart

it would tear her down

if only she knew

if only she realized

he has moved on

and moved on for good

once and for all

no longer at her beck and call

no longer her whipping boy

done and done and done some more

but if he comes right out

and let’s everyone know

he’s found real love

true love

forever and ever love

the kind where he too makes plans

for the family

and the future

and the expansion

of all that includes

then the ogress grows mad

has fits

and everyone to frightened

to tie her up

and tie her down

it is so sad to think

a creature so sorry

stands in the way

of so much happiness

so much honor

the one good thing I do know

and I will say

her dreary rule will not last forever

the castle blocks now crumble

I stand here watching

as her castle walls fumble

there is no attack

except that from within

that she makes herself

it may be sad to watch

but it is a necessary thing

like the shark snacking

on the unsuspecting seal

it is a purifying thing

maybe more than he can be saved

there is hope

we can pray

may sanity be granted to her one day

as for us

there may be that delay

before we can burst out

into the sun

and show the world

what we already know

there is no parting us

not in this world

nor any other

we stand strong

we stand solid

this is our time coming

and we will never look back

good-bye oh gruesome beast of ire

may you find peace

for you whatever that means

Poetry Play Today

Poetry Play Thursday 9/3/09

Hey, it's not midnight here yet! :-) That makes me on time, pretty much!

I so love this form--anything octopus and you know I am there...and you know I have to do things my way...I wrote two versions tonight--but I plan to play w this form more later on....


First one:

Her Hair


pale bloodless frozen ice blue
like flesh swimming beneath the flow
winter's hard gaze
unforgiving unconditional
dripping down crumbling tiles
bumbling over twisted gutters
raindrops tittering
skittering over fallen limbs
scarves caught on the railing
left out to dry all soaking
draped over the sodden lawn chair
collapsed over on its side
no mentalist leap needed
as snow drifts puddling
just like ice cream left too long
on the sidewalk in the sun



Number two:

Peace of Mind


mermaids tail green sea-worthy
frozen over underwater tundra
caught between the aisle and the island
swept up in the hurricane
wrapped warm and tight that blankie
taken from the family couch
lost in the memories
eaten slowly from within

Poem A Day 3 of 3

myriad thoughts
rumbling tumbling bumbling
wicked and wild
through my mind
teasing fingers prying
little shadows vying
each detail shouted
out behind the window
nothing comes in clear
even though i know it's there
how to reach it
how to grab it
how to draw it all inside
and put it into
practical use
loop up that artistry
harness it with logic
bring in the new breeze
and set us up for life
doing what we love to do
and never looking back

Poem A Day 2 of 3

I don't know
I look into your eyes
I can see it all there
But not the from here to there part
I know viscerally
It is meant to be
I can see
All down the line
How we can succeed
How things are so good
Between you and me
I just don't trust things
The bells in my head
They ring and ring
And Guilt speaks up
About
How I've ignored those bells before
But there is so much more
Here
Between us
We already have a past
We already have a basis
We already have a foundation
There is none of that left out in the open
Waiting to see if the other show will drop
If the way you squeeze the toothpaste will drive me nuts
Or if you shower often enough
I already know all of that
Silly as it may sound
Ones that came before you
Made these things big issues
For me to keep an eye out
And an eye on
I don't know
How much of this is my past
The baggage I carry around
How much of this is current circumstances
And a horse that keeps drowning
Demanding you be the one to step in
And pull its head out of the water
How much of it is my own
Fear of good things
Of actually being happy
Of not having to worry and fret and fear
About being able to relax
Feeling secure
And loved and wanted and worthwhile
I simply do not know
But as long as you are willing
I shall drag you along for the ride

Poem A Day Day 1 of 3

Eric Maisel is kicking my butt. I am SO GLAD Hybrid J 'introduced' us....

I am working through "the Creativity Book', slowly and with much forethought and butt-kicked trepidation. And loving every minute of it too.

Here's the Poem:


Untitlted


all the things i do
all the running around
all the trying to catch up
to keep up
who am i doing these things for
why do i bother
i don't care what joe thinks
i am not interested in what the jones' are up to
i am happy just doing my own thing
playing in the dirt
weaving with my fingers
baking bread
teasing children
chasing rabbits and deer
reading my books
scribbling a time or two
dabbling in paint
and braiding my hair
i am happy with myself
what else should i care

I Wrote It Yesterday!

I swear I wrote this yesterday...but for some reason left it on the laptop instead of transferring it over and uploading it...I try to keep the laptop offline when I am writing so I am not tempted by email or surfing or anything at all .....
But I did write this yesterday, and before 11a as well....anyway...here you go, my

Talkative Tuesday

piece.....





He’s out there again, brooding around in the dark, with the mist and the dark of the moon. He’s snooping around that lake again. Never tells a soul what he’s after, what he’s up to down there. You do have to wonder what the appeal is, out there, with that soupy fishy smell that leeches into your hair and your clothes.
No one is sure where this fellow came from either. He just showed up, picking through the trash outside Darla’s house. He seems mostly harmless. The kids avoid him like the plague, but the neighborhood dogs are always all over him, wanting to play and whatnot. He can’t be all bad if the hounds keep after him all the time.
Wonder what he’s looking for there. Fred told me the boy once told him he’d lost something when he got here and he’s trying to find something important. He can’t go home til he finds whatever it is. That young man must really like Fred, as he barely raises his eyes up to look at anyone human around here, much less speak to them.
I’ve seen him pick up baby birds and stick them right back in the nest and the mama bird never minds him a bit. The lad is a wonder. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him, mind you. Those icy blue eyes of his, so pale they are almost colorless. He doesn’t always seem to be all there. Always something shifty going on there.
Out there in the night, all them vapors pouring up around him. It just doesn’t seem right. He never takes a flash light. We know he sometimes dives into the lake, because sometimes we see him walking around dripping water from all his pores, trailing marsh grasses along in his pockets.
He’s not all that bad. Just a strange one. I really do hope he finds what he’s looking for out there. I hope he doesn’t get hurt while he’s finding it either.

Catching Up With The Texty Ladies

If I were to follow my heart…where would I go?
If I were to step inside my mind, take the spiral stairs down, deep deep way down into the dungeon that is my heart, what would I find there?
I know all too well the oceans and rivers of tears I have cried, and the tears I have kept inside…the ones that ever burn and collide, breaking through raw scabs and never allowing the healing to get by….
I know the dangerous jagged edges to the rocks that have formed, scaling far into the sky of my soul, peeling down into the earthen roots of my spirit.
I have long watched as one wound appears, volcanic mush and ash shoot forth, spewing ragged ichor everywhere, pushing out any new growth, burning it to the ground, forcing me back to ground zero, compelling me to seek other surer footing on my journey.
I have flown through those stormy skies, weeping in wonder at the pain and the sheer lucidity of so many unheard dreams languishing powerlessly from within the corral, behind the stone walls, far back behind the moat, these things I built in order to protect myself from the cruelest of cruel, those who claim to care, to love me, to hold my best interests in their hearts….
I can turn my face away for as long as I can stop my ears from absorbing the noise. I can burrow my head in the sand, pretend no one of it exists, laugh and play and pretend to trust and to believe…but it never really touches the dead zone in me, where the things that should have been still hang from trees with insects sucking juices from their eyes, murdered in the name of love, slaughtered in the name of good intentions…there is no way to avoid the echo of my screams, of my please, as I seek to free me from this quagmire past, as I yearn to break out, fill the moat, scale the walls, fly and fly and fly some more…..
How do you let go of a lifetime of misery when it is the only thing you know?


Prompt Found With the TextyLadies here

Restoring The Dig Tree

I find myself standing amid the debris and destruction that was my dig tree. I am not disenchanted or downtrodden or sad. I find that I am feeling strong, happy, hopeful. I search through the shards and shrapnel of exploded wood with care. I do not know for certain what it is for which I search, but I am sure I will know it when I see it. I stand there astounded by how far out the blast area reaches. Even though the lightning strike had caused a huge contusion, it hadn’t occurred to me that some much could have been thrown so far. And yet, it obviously had been. I walk slowly, circling, from left to right, in ever-widening circles, then ever-shrinking circles, over and over again, losing all sense of time and space, going in and going out, as my brain ceases to ponder the whys and wherefores of what happened last time I stood with this tree. I merely observe and attest to the reality of nothinglessness.
The remainder of the trunk remains attached to the roots seems to be stuck canted half in and half out of the dirt. I see shriveled blackened roots. So much of the wood appears to have died long ago, densely choked with noxious black goo, as well as plenty having withered away to tendrils of ash and dust. However, there is also a lot of healthy growth showing, where there were good times, places where healing continued as best it could under the circumstances. Even amidst this chaos of death, I can see the tiny fragments of life beading up, demanding their own fighting chance to survive. I cannot and will not take that from any of them.
I start to think I have spent enough time here, commiserating with the left-overs of the tree. Apparently, whatever it is I came to find is no longer here. Or maybe it was the memory alone that I was to gather and hold tight as my own. I walk away, back towards where I had come from, when I see it, about twelve feet away from the main core of the trunk. A tiny seedling, gasping with hope and vitality. My tree does not grow from seed, but from seedling, from an outgrowth from the roots that sends up new shoots at random periodic intervals. Here I am. Here is the spark I have been looking for, waiting for, needing to gather up with gracious arms and loving tears, to transplant to another , much safer ground.
With the utmost care and lightest of touches, I clear away the ground, digging around to ensure the safety of the root ball. The ball of craggly earth that I prise up is nearly three times larger than the sapling itself, but I don’t care. All I know is I must protect this baby. I carry it in my arms until I return to my abode, not quite a home, now less than a house since my heart has left it. I fill a deep wide pot full of the richest soil and plant my tiny tree in the pot, covering it with more fresh dirt and mulch. I will give it three days to adjust to the changes before I water it, in order to protect the roots that much more, according to the way I was taught by an ancient gardener long ago.
I offer it prayers, send energizing love and sweetest healing powers deep into its roots and its core. I set crystals around its edges to catch the sun and add that much more healing power and energy to the soil. I pray over it, weaving ribbons of light around the pot, the trunk and the tiny little leaves that bravely spurn the arena of death we so recently departed. I know that once I find my Home, I shall dig a wide deep hole and burrow the roots of this tree into the earth there, where I shall nurture and attend to this tree constantly, with all my love and ability. Where this tree grows shall be my everlasting Home. Now, in order to protect both this tree and my family, I must look even harder for that home that is meant for us.











prompt found at The Dig Tree

Returning to The Dig Tree

You would think, as whiney as I was last time I stood before this tree, with my pick in my hand, deciding I was too tired and too whatever to actually just dig in, that I would have gotten over myself and my little childish whims before I came back again. Ah, but that simply is not so, because here I am, glaring at this crummy twisted tree, yet again, scowling and angry and more than a little irritated with everything, blaming the tree for my own vapid indecision. Fine. Here I am. I shall be here now and plain old get over myself.
I did not really come prepared this time. I have no shovel. I have no pick. I have my hands, with no gloves to clothe and shelter them from the rocky ground that surrounds and protects this old dig tree. At least this time, I can say with the utmost certainty, I know why I am here; I know what I am looking for….I have achieved all my major dreams…only to find out…I need to dream bigger…but…what do I have left to dream about, when all is said and done? Do I even know how? Are the dreams already there, as I suspect, locked inside of me, locked down and afraid to come out, lest they actually be seen and brought to fruition? If I dig deep enough, will I be able to find them? Unearth them? Bring them to the surface? Shine the light of day upon them and breathe true life into them? Will I be able to find Me in there?
Lucky me, I am so focused on dirt and rock and the need to claw my way down below, to strip forth the roots of this tree, to expose the me I know is in there somewhere that I cannot yet find, I fail to look up, fail to notice the sky growing solemn and menacing at the same time. I fail to notice black and green roiling clouds. I do not hear, do not feel, the rumbling growl of approaching thunder. I do not feel the shift in the air, the ozone sizzle that stings my eyes and makes me sniffle. I do hear the whip crack trill of the lightning striking; I am thrown back by the blast as it strikes the heartwood of my tree, not merely breaking it open, but exploding the inner recesses outward, revealing dark swirls amidst the pale yellowed core of the tree.
I can no longer deny it; the tree is me, in effigy. Here I stand, sundered by the will of the Universe, spread out, spread open, splattered into so much shrapnel and splintered slivers. Here are all my dark shadows, all the scar tissue, all the broken pieces that when assembled transmit me to the masses. Here I am, struck dumb and silent, smoke burning my throat, tearing my eyes, peeling away the somber matter that hangs over me like veils from a past I no longer sustain.
I pick myself up, dust away the ash and dust and little bits of nefarious ephemera that persist in clinging to me. I might as well get this over with now. As clear as this celestial push is, as pure as the motives here are, I cannot deny that this is the best and most perfect time to delve in with both hands, mindless of scrapes and bruises, to rip away the unnecessary bondage I have spent so many years wrapping around myself. To pry loose that which I need most to bring about my own clarity and release my vision, loose my spirit upon my own stead.
I step into the debris, mindless of the poking and prodding, the sharp gouges, the biting fingers, trying to hold me back, pressing to tie me back down. I start to grab whatever I can find and fling it away. I am not even stopping to see what I pick up and throw over my shoulder.
There is the house. I wasn’t too picky when I bought the first one. All I wanted was three bedrooms and to be close to my son and his father’s house.
There is the tie to my son. Wanting to be physically closer. Emotionally closer again. There is a lot of fine detail that must be worked on there.
There swings my job, working for myself, but without the much finer detail. All that much needed detail, to expand and expound upon all things there.
There goes my writing. Not enough clarity there either. Too little sketched out to be useful. Barely enough to keep things flowing along.
So much for my drawing and painting; somehow it was set alongside the road and abandoned when a frailer time hit. I need to flesh out those bones so much more.
There stands that good man, tall and slender, with the glint in his eye from staring into the sun, just as I requested. You know, there is not so much I’d change about him. I do need to change the way I deal with him, so unused to being happy or content am I.
Where is the car? The one I can’t even drive due to fear and insecurity all over again? Put that one on the list of things to do. Must find said car. Get into it. Ride that pony one more time. Until I am ok doing it once more.
Here is the income to support the family, the children, to get them into different programs and much more. Here is the safety net I have needed. Nevertheless, there is so much more. So much more out there to be sought, if only I can pry deeper down and chuck things out and keep them straight. If I can set my path, I can find a way to navigate. If I can just figure out where I want to go, the how I want to get there will fall into place.
I come down to the very core, the exact center, of all that I am, all that was this tree. I stand up, stretching out my stiff back, surveying the damage I have caused in my inquiries and harried reachings and gropings.
I can see there shining like a star above all, the Rescue Ranch, that has for so long meant the world to me. Even as I see the promise that I made to that wonderful man, that I would not separate him from his family, would never come between him and them. I stand by that. I am not one who would force such an inhumane choice upon anyone. I see that there must be changes made in the application of achieving this goal, but as yet, I am not certain which way to go, or how to go about doing it. Although I am certain I am not giving either the Ranch or the man up for anything.
There is working for myself, and so many details to pick up and poke around and set into an order that makes some sort of sense for me. There is the phone work, which is going so tremendously well I almost cannot believe it. Though I know that I want more. I want to step out more into the Healer role. I want to step more into the Teacher role, outside of home-schooling of my daughter, and of myself. I also know that my writing needs to take more precedence. I know my artwork needs to take more precedence. There are dolls dancing in my dreams, talking to me about the way my hands move across the substrate of their flesh and bring forth the living beauty of them. There is poetry to write and to recite. There are fibers to be woven and knitted together. There are teatimes to be taken, one sip at a time. So many things, each in its own time, must be separated from the herd, taken down to brass tacks, evaluated, determined, investigated and set out into the world on two steady feet to take growth and boom forward. To blossom and create and procreate.
There is my family. The children of my hearth currently among us. The children of my hearth that will be joining us soon enough. From old sources, as well as from new sources. There is a great deal of detail needed to clarify things with family, from handling former fathers, to incorporating current households, to moving on and expanding things in all directions. Here lives too much fear and shyness and inability to reach for what I want and for what I hope and desire for fear of all that I want being taken away by cold uncaring hands. This place requires patience and compromise by one and all.
Speaking of households, there comes the need of a new house. A new dwelling, with new specifications, new ways of filling things, new ways of letting go of things, new ways of interpreting the way things come together and what it all means to me, and to us as a family, to everyone involved.
There is the business of education, of my own, that of my children, and we as a family together at large. There are rules and expectations and evaluations and so much more. Details. Details. The devil is in the details and we need to make that devil earn his meals here if he is to remain and to prosper along with us, as we plan to do.
There is training the dog. Deciding what to do about the bird. Figuring out who I am and who I want to be. Dealing with all the detritus from my past. As well as that from the boyfriend’s past as well. So many places to touch, so many scars to break open and scrape away the old and the dead. So much new wood now bursting to shove out shoots and to begin new growth. I simply need to go in, decide what I want to grow and in which direction it should go, and set things into the ground so that I may nurture and encourage them. Feed them well. Water them plentifully without over-watering. Prune them back as situations adjust and grow.
At least now, I can take that step back, free from my ire and my angst, and look more clearly upon these little seedlings straggling before me. Now, I can release all of this garbage I have been carrying around on my back and continue the process I have only started here with this clearing away of so much deadwood. First a shower, and a meal, and then I shall come back, take each little wisp of new life, and delve into its mysteries and where we want it all to go this time.
This time I will seek out the heavens and beyond before I entertain any sort of limit to my goals and desires. I shall fly on gryffin wings and soar, breathing dragon’s flame and dragon’s desire all over everything, purifying my way, burning away my fears. I do not expect an easy path. I do not expect instant perfection. I do however believe I shall achieve and over-achieve all my goals. I shall surpass all my very own dreams.
Surely, above all else, I shall prove once again that I am blessed and ever shall be.






based on a prompt from:
The Dig Tree

Look At Me Now

First, how do you like the new look for the blog?

Let me apologise to everyone who has given me an award: they are not gone--they still stand in the original posts. Things were getting too cluttered for me, so I decided to pare back on things. I mean no disrespect and I am still very grateful for each and every single award. I am very proud to have been chosen by such wonderful people as having some sort of impact on them. And on the world at large.

I have done a little house-keeping here and there on a number of blogs, and in my own home as well. Things are in the process of a huge shifting. I am no longer feeling overwhelmed or unsure about myself or about things. Better things are coming my way. That big clear clean wind is blowing. This is only the first of many lovely things to come.

I cannot believe how quickly my life can turn around. But it has. I have removed the yokes that have held me in place, that I allowed to hold me in place, and I am moving forward. I am the snowflake at the top of the mountain that becomes the torrent of avalanche as it speeds to the bottom. I know I am landing happy and content at the end of this turn here.

Last year, I struggled for months to save money to buy things for our homeschooling process. I never quite had enough to get everything I wanted all at once. This year, I ordered not only this year's supplies in total, but some other extra supplies in case the girl progresses faster than expected, things that would have had to have waited until next year had I continued upon the same path I was on in early June of this year.

I love Christopherus Homeschool Resources. I bought the pre-kindergarten series, the kindergarten series, and the first grade syllabus and series before we left MO to move to MD. We have used them. I had no idea how much I used the philosophies I had garnered from Donna's books until I picked up the first grade syllabus a week or so ago, in order to find out where we have been really slacking and the best way to improve things. Well, despite my lax adherence to daily rhythms, we have been doing much better than I expected. We are a bit behind on the art and movement. I know E needs more history. But otherwise, we do seem solid. E has a third grade mathematics comprehension level. She can do simple multiplication and division now, and R does have alot to do with that. He is also pressing her in her reading, and there are times when we really catch on to the fact that she reads much better than she lets anyone think. She is not up to reading all of Lestat's adventures yet, but she is getting there.

I am pretty proud of myself w the Christopherus order. Not only did I get the second grade syllabus, but I also grabbed a cook book, several art books, the living language book and some other things. I am very excited for them to get here so we can begin. :-)

I have had E working through the primer level of mathusee's program, in order to familiarize her w their system. I had forgotten we had this. I had it stuck on a bookshelf in the storage room so I wouldn't forget it. E is rather frustrated w the primer level. It is way too beneath her current range and she bores easily. I keep explaining she is having to learn how to use their block system so she will be ready when alpha and beta get here. Again, primer is something I ordered before we left MO for MD. This was in a box at my mother's for the longest time; whereas I had the christopherus stuff w me in the apartment in WV, after a trip or two to Ma's (thank you, Dad) to grab essentials and whatnot. The mathusee stuff got rolled when the truck went head over heels in Nov 08.

Now, on top of the regular we ordered curriculum stuff, I also decided to do some things for us and for me. Since I am on the phone so much w clients (and yes, I am on the phone more now than I was before--now add more time w more money and see why I am able this year to actually buy curriculum outright like this) and because my kids ruined the living room rug--and now my den is rather cluttered and dense--and I am made nervous by the whole mouse issue--I decided I needed to buy some actual work-out equipment. I always love stationary bikes. So I figured I'd get a bike. I started my research and discovered that not only were recumbent bikes healthier for your back (etc), they also seemed to be more quiet than regular upright bikes. So, I started looking at recumbent bikes. Which somehow lead me to investigating elliptical machines. I was really leaning towards a recumbent bike, until R took us into a sporting goods shop and let us all test the elliptical machines and the recumbent bikes and everything else. Now, I do like the recumbent bikes. Don't get me wrong. But I really liked the elliptical machines. What I ended up ordering when I got home was a cross trainer machine--both elliptical machine and upright stationery bike. I am eagerly awaiting its delivery. I have already prepped R for my needing help to assemble something once it gets here. That conversation is what led us to the test-drive process. :-) He's gone on a float trip this week-end, so he doesn't know yet what I have heading my way.

Then, I sat down in front of my computer and I brainstormed. I gathered research I had done in an actual bookstore, coupled with recommendations from mentors and teachers, and I went to town ordering books.
I bought a bunch of writer's books for myself. I figure if E has to do her schoolwork, I should have to do mine too. I will post my newly ordered books on my goodreads site, if you are interested in seeing what I ordered. I ordered some books suggested by SoulFoodCafe members, mostly in regards to Hestia's Hearth. As well as some recommended by Heather herself.
I am very nearly done with "Living Your Unlived Life" by Robert Johnson and Jerry Ruhl. I have been dreading finishing it. It is very good. I am wondering where to go from here, after I am done with this book, I have another book by Mr. Johnson, so I am not entirely bereft. And it is not as if I don't have a billion books at my disposal in my own home anyway. But I am heading somewhere right now and I know it. I can see the final destination, I just want to be doing everything I can right now to ensure the best possible journey. Doesn't have to be the fastest, just the most enjoyable. I have had enough stupidity and ignorance in my life. I am leaving all that behind.

I ordered alot of books in regards to helping both E and N in their learning processes. I also ordered the amplified bible. E has been asking for more stories about Jesus Christ and all sorts of other people she has minimal knowledge of, like Esther, like Daniel, and my favourite, the resurrected Dorcas (which is Greek for Tabitha :-) ) Plus, I have wanted a transliteration for a very long time. Right now this does seem to open up enough avenues that I feel better about buying it. I am planning, whenever I find something appropriate, to buy E some bible story books. But- I will also buy Jewish and Muslim and Buddhist and Hindu and Native America and whatever else I can find. The more she is exposed to, the better I feel about things and the more informed she is. Right now, she is more interested in the Jesus Christ stories.

I also made sure I procured a copy of 'The Joy Diet' by Martha Beck for the next chapter group starting in September. Make sure you go to the blog to check things out. Jamie Ridler is the group leader and she is always and of course magnificent!

I very nearly bought some more art instruction books, but I held myself in check this time. I have a couple already here to read before I allow myself to buy any more.

I am also not allowing myself to buy any more writer's books, neither as resources nor prompts nor inspiration. Nada. I should have enough in my current possession to keep me very busy for awhile now. I plan to re-access this next year at some point. No definite time planned yet though. That'll come to me. Surely.

It's like my yarn diet. No new yarn without first stash diving. E got to pick out some yarn for her little black riding hood scarf (it's a hooded scarf by Suss Cousins in her 'Hollywood Knits Style' book. I made one in maroon when we were in WV, but I gave it away. And now, my little darkling vampire goth chick snot-head, she requires black. :-) She is actually pretty excited over this thing now.

I told R the other day the way things are going I'll be buying him his truck by the end of the year. He wasn't scoffing at me either. If this is merely the tip of the iceberg...just imagine what is going to start happening for me. For us.

I am just very excited.

Oh, and I am very far behind in my transcription. I have been writing. Every day except for the past Wednesday, when we were w R. Tuesday I got some writing done before he came to pick us up. :-) Here is what I have, roughly:
Five of the stories are for K's journey.
One is for Hestia.
The rest are just vignettes mostly.
I have thirteen pieces in all.
I was actually surprised at having five pieces for K done. For some reason, I was thinking there were only three. So I have impressed myself there.

I am in the midst of an article for my friend and client. I will show it to the world as soon as I finish it and clean it up somewhat.

I had an interesting evening today. My loving son came in to check out my feet, as he has done every weekend for several weeks now. My heels are cracking, Or they were cracking. They've been healing, longer than N has been carefully checking them out every week. But a great deal faster in the past 2-3 weeks now.
First thing he told me to go wash my feet, that they were dirty. They were dirty and they were grossing me out. I neglected to point out his last cup of chocolate milk, where the milk had spilled in one way while the powder puffed up and gusted out in another direction, and I had walked through all of that and then some.
I came back in with clean feet and he did his usual inspection, rubbing and pressing the soles of my feet. He told me they were looking better. My son talks. My son interacts. My son catches on. And when allowed, he really talks. Not just in response to questions put to him. Not just demanding a drink or a toy or a movie or whatever. This child tonight laid on the bed and talked to me. I let him talk. I only responded when he asked a question. He explained to me what I needed to do to take care of my feet so they would heal (truthfully, forging out on my own has been the best healing process ever). He told me in detail. He told me how I needed to wash my feet, He told me about using band-aids and how of course that is how my feet would get better. He told me about how band-aids had helped his booboos heal and how they always made him feel better. No one ever gives this kid credit. They call him "autistic" and write him off as a non-entity who cannot relate or function, even people who know him. This kid, who usually bounces off walls while he is here because I let him just be N, I let him pour his own milk and add his own chocolate powder without getting upset over the mess, I let him nuke his own butter for popcorn and depending on how hot the mug is when it comes out he gets to pour the butter too and put the salt on, I let him get his own plate, his own popsicle, all sorts of things.

This boy of mine, this so-called "dysfunctional" and out of sorts child, laid on my bed with his feet pressing against mine and all he did was talk to me. For a good ten minutes. And all I did was offer soft quiet very short answers, hoping to keep him talking as long as I could. I can hear the adult in there trying to work its way out. It's a brilliant thing.

Why did this little man stop talking to me tonight? Because he was falling asleep and his sister came in to set up her bed for the night. As soon as she came in, he fell silent. He was asleep about five minutes later.

This is the little boy who waits til the clock is roughly at 12N before walking in to crouch over his sister and give her a hundred kisses on her cheek and head in order to wake her up every morning when he's here. And he does it becasue he wants to, not because he is urged, or because anyone suggests it. He just loves his sister, period. The boy himself gets up at the ungodliest of hours. Today I got to sleep til almost 8a (I will explain why in another post--first there was the insomnia--then there was a book). I am so exhausted. I took a nap earlier in the evening, but it wasn't enough. I had clients and friends in need of counsel today. Which is a terrific thing and for which I am very grateful. Even for the friends part.

I know I have a busy day ahead of me tomorrow. I have to make the time to email my friend, whom I neglected today. I have to transcribe thirteen stories, not to mention whatever I write tomorrow morning as well.

My bf is going to have a field day w me. I want another tattoo. I really want another tattoo. The conversation w Sarah the other day about her drawing a tattoo out for someone-it is stuck in my head.

The more I turn it around and around, the more I think I am going to ask her to draw me something. And that something I am going to get tattooed on me somewhere. I would really like the warrior geisha fairy done on me, but there's way too much detail in there in the black ink lines. I would love to find a way to have the warrior done in a sleeker more defined and yet less detailed manner. Am I making sense or did that stop a long time ago? :-)

I am planning to run it by her one day soon. Once I have a better idea of what I want in my head. I have a place in mind for her to go already. And it will not disturb the wind dragon I want to get in the same area either. Not if I do it right. :-)

Oh, the deal w the bf? He says I have at least one tattoo too many. Maybe two. I am over the limit for the number of tattoos he finds reasonable. Of course, I keep pointing out, his issue lies in the fact that the last two I got were for him. The one before the last one, I didn't tell him what it was about or who it was for/about until after it was done. Literally. I told him a few seconds after he pulled away from the curb at the tattoo place. I do love that man--and the way he reacts to things.
Taking him in and having him hold my hand when I got the last one done, his clan name on my wrist, that was the most spectacular thing, in the whole world. Minus the hours we spent together after we got it done. Those were really telling in and of themselves.

Ok-I'm done for the night. Time to shower and go read.
May the Bright Lights shine upon you at all times.
And may They shine away from your eyes when you're sleeping. :-)
Blessings.

Thanks for listening.

Poetic Asides Catch Up

Poetic Asides 053 July 15, 2009

The Big Event


Patience-
So not my virtue-
Waiting
Fifteen days-
Counting down-
Now ten-
Now nine-
Seven more to go-
All these ideas
These dreams in my head-
All swarming around-
He’s upset at the
Possibility-
But I’m thrilled-
Which scares him
Even more-
We’re all waiting
Around
For the big event
The perfect time
The time for us
To take the test
So we can know
For sure
Are we pregnant
Or not

In Case You MIss Me For The Next Couple Weeks

edited July 13, 2009



I have learned a valuable lesson this past week. Something I have been saying for a long time. Something I should have understood, but never truly internalized and caught on to, to the depth of the subject. Moreover, it sounds so silly to say out loud. Nevertheless, I have been kicking this idea around for days now and it rings truer and truer every time I examine it.
I am thirty-seven years old. I am an Intuitive, an Empath, and an all-around energetic sponge and processor. Strange things affect me. If it starts to get stormy outside, I get cranky. Atmospheric changes cause changes within me. We go to the store to pick up a few things, it doesn’t take long for the variety of energies around me, from the wiring to the lighting to the people around me, to wash over me and drain me. I used to have really good shields. I used to only feel things when I would lower my shields, let things in, peek out to look around. I lack that ability any more. The ex comes over to pick up my son on the week-ends and I can tell you what sort of week-end he had, all based on what he hits me with energetically before he even enters the house. It sucks to read someone’s energy when it is nearly opposite of the stuff that flies out of his mouth all the time. I see that a lot in my life though and not only in my work either.
All of that said, you still have no clue what I am trying to get out yet. I know; I apologize. My body is alive…and it has a mind of its own. I do not mean to relate that my body is a living functioning organism with its own internal brain that causes my physical apparatus to work and move and do their thing with or without my conscious consent. I mean to say, I have a Mind, that is its own Entity, exclusive of My Self. I mean to say, my Soul is an Entity in and of itself, regardless of me as well. AND MY BODY is its very own Entity, apart and separate from My Self as well. As in, my body knows, has its own wisdom, communicates loudly and clearly, if only I calm my mind and soften my heart enough to listen to what she has to say.
It’s fascinating.
Now, let me quantify a few things here. Not counting this year….I have been pregnant three times in my life. I rarely, rarely, speak of the first pregnancy. Nevertheless, I can tell you we were in the actual act of copulation when I made a mental remark about getting pregnant. Lo and behold, that IS when I got pregnant. The second pregnancy was during a time when I was involved with a coven of Stupid People. I will not call them “witches”, because ‘witch’, to me, is a term of respect for someone who has the knowledge and the wisdom of the Old Ways (or whatever ways they wish to follow—and nope, I am not a witch, nor have I ever been a witch—although I’ve studied a great deal—and my mother is most definitely a Witch, capital W). These people were all about Power, getting it, using it, abusing it. Controlling it. An example of mainstream ‘witchery’ here to make the comparison is Dumbledore (the ‘good” witch) versus He Who Shall Not Be Named (the ‘bad’ witch)—or better yet, Glenda, the Good Witch, versus Elphaba, the Wicked Witch of the West. My second pregnancy was very specifically hidden from me, especially by my Spirit Guides, until after the six week mark. According to Waldorf pedagogy, this is when the soul incarnates into the fetus. I was returning from a trip to Kansas when my Guides hit me all over with the ‘you’re pregnant’, ‘you’re pregnant’, ‘better go buy a pregnancy test’ drama that only a cluster of five year olds could rival. I had thought they’d meant pregnant from that week-end. A trip to the doctor’s office quickly set that to rights. The time after that. I cannot recall if I knew when we were having sex. As stupid as this sounds, with my son’s father I tried to block sex, even when we were in the middle of it, as much as I could. I met him in August, 2003. I got pregnant in December, 2003. I was bored sexually by September, maybe as late as early October, when I still had hope he might be open to learning more than his normal….pattern. Yet, again, I digress. I do know, because I have it written down, that on December 7, 2003, I knew I was pregnant and that the baby had implanted. The midwife told me there is no way I could know that. Guess which one of us was right… It wasn’t her. We couldn’t take an at-home test til Christmas morning, but it showed positive then, clear as day.
I am also good about hitting due dates dead on. My daughter (pregnancy number two) is the only one I got wrong, but that’s because she didn’t come on her own. We lived in St Louis, MO, where these things are routinely scheduled. This is one reason why the next time, I used a midwife. I think my daughter would be healthier physically and mentally if I’d let her do things in her own time.
So, for the past two months, my Guides have been heckling the snot out of me. Yes, I am getting to the whole my body is alive thing…work with me. I ordered baby slings, since the only one I have left, I bought when my now eight year old was an infant. It is still serviceable, but I wanted something without the metal ring. I have ordered breast-feeding dvds, because my doula sucked last time and I am a visual learner. I couldn’t get everything I needed from books and there was no one else to ask. This is one case where just keep trying was not an option. I have been having dreams about White Elephants. We can skip the Buddha’s birth stories here; white elephants mean something specific to me.
My Guides nagged me for weeks about those dvds, waking me up at three o’clock in the morning. I had to order them before they would let me go back to sleep. I even bought pregnancy tests (two in a box) a week before I decided I might genuinely be pregnant. They are such pains, these Guides. But this sort of prep work is normal with them, and I have yet to see it fail. Sometimes the prep work comes very early; other times, not so much.
The last week of June. This year. My Guides start. ‘This is the time’, ‘this is when it’s going to happen’, blah blah blah. The day before my period starts and my Guides are all over me about this is “the” time. Yes, the boyfriend and I are careful. We utilize about three different methods in conjunction with one another. We want kids together; he wants to wait. Yes, you heard that correctly. I haven’t been so paranoid about getting my period…ever in my life. Not even when I was young and into all sorts of trouble and wildness. June 29. I was so absolutely certain THIS was the day, this was the time. It was Monday. Tuesday found me researching, lots of things, feeling almost sure the Guides were wrong again. By Wednesday, I was denying things. I maintained my denial that entire week. Tuesday, July 7, I knew. I was almost certain that I knew I was pregnant. Wednesday, I was so certain I emailed my mother to let her know I think I’m pregnant. She pointed out that they do know what causes that these days and there are cures for it. Friday, I told the boyfriend. Emotional upheaval, of course, ensued. For a variety of reasons. (We’re not married, which is an issue for and with him…he’s currently unemployed due to a lay off and not really thrilled by that prospect, since it’s been three months and he’s still looking….yada yada yada….)
The problem for me: he knew for almost a week that I thought I might be pregnant. Based mostly on my body language, apparently. Because even when I was almost certain I was pregnant, I kept sticking to my I’ve had stomach issues lately. Plus, he’s been my best friend for nine years; he’s seen me through both these last two pregnancies. I gave birth to my son in his house. He does know me all too well. He did actually have to force me to tell him; I wasn’t planning to tell him until I had actual proof, other than my own physical signs and symptoms. I wasn’t planning to say a word til after I took the test after July 23.
Here is what my body kept telling me: we’re pregnant; relax. We’re pregnant; enjoy it. We’re pregnant; treat yourself more kindly. We’re pregnant; treat yourself more carefully, more healthily (food and I have issues).
Here’s what I missed: my first yeast infection since I was married to the ex-husband. I thought it had to do with something else entirely. Tender and sore breasts right after my period rather than right before it. Not to mention the change in shape and …heft. There are things going on in there. I get very sensitive to smells while pregnant….during the first week of July, we went to lunch and the smell alone nearly made me vomit. Moodiness and snarkiness, which usually goes hand in hand with my PMS, is alive and well right now. Hot flashes, hot enough to cause sweating. Light-headedness. Usually this is from a sugar imbalance in my system, but this has been happening when I know my sugar is ok. I do try to be careful with that. My Guides have been increasing the doses of my herbal supplements lately. I thought it was because I wasn’t really feeling well. My sleep schedule has been utterly off; I have been unable to sleep nights, but camped out come morning. Thankfully, my new work automatically logs me in and I don’t sleep through the phone ringing. My stomach is hard, in places where normally it should be soft. I’ve been thinking I was putting on weight for over a week now. Now, this alone may not sound like much of anything to you, but I spent most of my teen-aged years anorexic and bulimic, so bad that I required hospitalization at times. Thirty-seven years old, almost twenty years later, and I still have to be careful. They never tell you anorexia and/or bulimia is like drug addiction or alcohol addiction—it’s a one day at a time for the rest of your life deal for some of us. When I start feeling that I am putting on weight, and I haven’t increased my eating or decreased my activity, I take notice real fast. Now, other things that have happened, my headaches stopped. The heels of my poor cracked feet are not completely healed, but there is a huge stellar difference in the way they look now versus the way they looked at the end of June. And I’ve done nothing more than ignore them for the most part, so it isn’t anything I’ve done. Technically, they should look a lot worse than they do. But no, they look stunningly better.
Up until I decided to acknowledge that yes, I am pregnant, I had this strange visceral energy that just wouldn’t quit. I am not the type to sit still even at the best of times, but this intense need for…something…was driving me bonkers. As soon as I thought, yes, I am definitely pregnant, even though I thought, maybe, at the end, this huge rush of calm and peace swarmed over me and through me. I napped that day. I nap a lot, used to nap more, but I do it still upon occasion. So, one lone nap to me is no indicator. I am frequently tired. I have been since I met my son’s father. He sucked the life right out of me and I still fight to reclaim that. And having my son was not an easy feat either. The pregnancy took so much out of me. He turns six this year and I just recently felt I could honestly say my cycles were back on even keel and my body was in decent shape again since his birth…and that’s just the recovering from his interment and birth process, not having to keep up with him, his sister, or the stupid people that were around us at the time.
I’ve had bursts of cleaning energy, which also is not untoward with me. It happens, at random. I have to fight the urges to pull what little I kept from my older two children when they were babies; I let go of almost all of it when we moved into this house. I decided to do nothing until I have proof, one way or the other.
I have definite times to eat now, whereas before I rather meandered around eating times. For some reason, between two and three in the morning is prime time for feeding, for feeding the baby. I feel as if I am being prepared for what is coming. I tend to feel like that a lot though. Not just with this situation.
Other really weird stuff? My body reacts to things, completely independent of my mind. Or at least that’s how I see it. One thing is I have noticed that really strikes me is the fact I can’t really wear my normal jeans right now. See, I was a teenager in the 80s. I was one of those girls more than willing to use baby powder and a pair of pliers to get into my jeans. This was before they started to make jeans with spandex or whatever in them. Real denim has no stretch. I am used to wearing tight pants, even if these days the material stretches. I can’t stand it, for over a week now. But when I don’t feel well, this is a semi-normal reaction. I am lucky I have several pairs of jeans that are loose enough to be really comfortable, but still look like respectable jeans too.
Coffee. I want coffee. I am not a big coffee drinker. Never really have been. But with my sleep cycle topsy-turvy lately, I want coffee; I need something to keep me awake. I cannot order coffee when we go out; I cannot make coffee at home. Every time I so much as try, I get nauseous. No caffeine allowed, according to my body.
Even weirder, I cannot sleep on my left side, which is the side I normally sleep on. When you are further along in the pregnancy, sleeping on your left side compresses arteries and veins and who knows what, and inhibits blood flow to the baby. I have to fight myself to sleep on my left side. Even if I am pregnant, sleeping on my left side now when the baby is a mere speck is not going to hurt anything. Even so, I end up sleeping on my right side, because that’s the only way I can get comfortable.
My body has been reaching out to me, engulfing me, holding me, cradling me, trying to show me the way, trying to make me understand. My boyfriend has a point with many things he says, as in this could be in my mind, a false pregnancy, based on my wanting certain things to change where he is concerned (outside of our relationship and me, and outside of his job search). I could just so want to be pregnant I am thinking I am pregnant, imagining it.
Then why does my stomach crave the attention of my hand? Not my actual stomach, but my lower abdomen? There is no soul incarnated yet, but I can feel an energy source, something seeking my energy, my hand. My body is reacting, even as my brain tries to push the logical angle. My boyfriend, also very Intuitive and Empathic, does not think I am pregnant. He thinks it’s in my mind. He does not mean it to be as bad as it sounds. He’s not being mean about things. He’s trying to rationalize and to be pragmatic. I know the baby implanted on the left side of my womb. Just as I knew my daughter was on the right. Come to think of it, my son implanted on the left as well.
I do find myself rocking, when I stand or when I sit, as I do when I have an infant. I find myself seated at the computer, researching cloth diapers, pregnancy, layette needs. It’s been so long since I have had an infant, I am actually afraid I might not have everything on hand when he arrives. I finally bought ‘Spiritual Midwifery’ by Ina May Gaskin. That book is an absolute HOOT. Now, do keep in mind that this last year, before we moved here into this house, I was contemplating moving to the Farm. The only reason I didn’t was because of my son. This is the only way I will get to see him, if I live close enough for his father to drive back and forth. (just do an internet search for ‘The Farm’ in TN—it’s the oldest known, uhm, hippy commune still in existence…from the things I have read recently, it sounds like my idea of Heaven on Earth.)
Now, you judge my brain here. When I am pregnant, I cannot stand to look at the actual photos (or even the diagrams) of babies coming through and out the birth canal. Actual birthings scare the heck out of me; the contractions with my son were so painful I could not reach beyond them, I could not reach within them, it was more than enduring, more than breathing through them—there was pain, unmitigated and unstoppable. I think there are a lot of reasons for that. ‘Spiritual Midwifery’ has been such a blessing. I swear, Ina May Gaskin wrote it for me. When I am not pregnant, the photos don’t frighten me; I don’t really care for them, but I don’t slam the book shut and hide from it for awhile. I hid from this book for long periods of time after it arrived. Labor and delivery scares me. It always has. I can deal with pain; I just don’t like to. Having a baby as a single mother? No problem. Having to deal with the hateful ex for oh eighteen years? No problem. Labor and delivery? A perfectly natural uncomplicated (usually, thank goodness) process? Problem. Big problem.
Do you know one of the most blissful things I read while I was pregnant with my son (and preparing for the home birth, which I will be doing again) was that the body will do all the work if you let it. You can pass out and the body will keep on working. When you are afraid no one will be there when you give birth and you won’t be able to handle anything at all by yourself and you’ll screw things up, forget to do things, cut the cord the wrong way, something, there is a great bit of confidence and calm in the fact that your body knows what to do…and it will do it, with or without your assistance.
We cannot take an at home pregnancy test until July 24. You may not hear much from me until this time. I run hot and cold on everything. I want to write. I start writing. Stop in mid-sentence. Find something else to do. I start to draw. I stop in mid-line and walk away. I was supposed to knit my friend a doll. Or crochet it. I had everything out. All the books, patterns marked and ready. The yarns out and sitting here, waiting. My hands were shaking so bad I couldn’t do a thing. So still, it sits and awaits my attention.
I have about five books I meander through, when the urge strikes me. I ran through my vampire and shifter books too soon recently, and unless I want to re-read things, I have to work through what I have on hand, rather than my cotton-candy mind fluff stuff. I do morning pages at random. I move towards certain goals. I am not really covering anything.
I feel pretty much on hold. I know where I am ordering the cloth diapering system I have decided is best for us. I have decided I cannot go through what baby stuff I do have here. I want to clean out my attic as well. I cannot tell you if I am having twins now, or what. I did run a few things by my son, who is in touch with worlds we know nothing of, and he says one baby and it’s a boy. He’s looking forward to meeting his baby brother. Well, I think he is more looking forward to being the Big Brother for a change, rather than the Little Brother. He even said he would change diapers! Isn’t that great? At least til it comes time for him to actually do it? Then again, with my son, he might apply that fierce concentration of his to the task and do an incredibly thorough job of it.
Until we can take the test, my body keeps telling me, there is someone in here growing inside you, someone who loves you already, someone who already knows the sound of your voice. How can I deny that? How can I deny the longing I feel from within my womb? From within my own heart?
And yet, there is the logical side, the side that doesn’t trust me or My Self at all, pondering if this is a fluke, a falsity. A desire made flesh by my mind, but with no actual physical truth behind it.
I keep reminding myself: I have never had a pregnancy ‘scare’. Every single time I thought I was pregnant, I have been pregnant. My Guides know not to mess with me about this. Teasing me about getting pregnant is one thing; telling me I am pregnant and I am not is grounds for ….. complete decimation. Someone once told me I could not deconstruct the World. They were wrong. The World is energy. Energy cannot be destroyed in and of itself, but it can be re-arranged, altered, shifted and changed, from one form to another. My Guides are aware of what I can and will do if this turns out to be a lie. They know how much I want this, even if the timing is inconvenient for my boyfriend.
My body, on the other hand, does not lie. My body has never lied to me. I have failed to listen, failed to heed her calls and attempts to communicate. I have misunderstood her, misread her. But she herself has never lied. My body is reaching out now, speaking to me, more forcibly than ever I have heard her before. She has never come across this clearly before. I am impressed by her dedication to reach me, to have me hear her and react to her intentions. She is alive, in her own right. It is only right of me to honor her for that, to treat her well, to listen…and to be at peace.
We want this. We truly want this. With all our hearts.