If you want to be open...

It's been said to me, at least once, if you want to be open, be open. I think the same must go for being vulnerable.

It's so hard to just let things...happen. To really feel things, to really be present, to tell the truth even when it isn't pretty, even when it's going to hurt someone...most of all, when it's going to hurt you. It's a struggle to let enough of life in to be opened and changed, because opened and changed doesn't always mean feeling good. It means feeling real, which is not automatically feeling happy.

Math

I need a solution, not an equation- instead,
A breath, a kiss, a lingering twilight
Not concerned with addition, not fooled by subtraction.

Thoughts on Intimacy

An adult view of intimacy:  knowing oneself deeply, and allowing interactions with others to have depth without letting oneself be reworked/refashioned through the lens of another's perceptions.

Maybe this is the only way we can truly be in relationship with another...we first have to be in right relationship with self.

Life Earthquake

Everything has been shifting, and new opportunities are popping up all over the place.

I'm just trying to hold on and enjoy the ride right now. 

I think the Universe needs to hear me be grateful for once.

I just heard something pretty craptacular.  Instead of griping, I'm going to focus on what I'm grateful to have in my life.

Thank you thank you, Great Big World, for:

- my lil' dog- she brings me so much joy
- my full-time job, where I'm appreciated and allowed to expand and grow
- my roommate B, who is boombastic and really fantastic
- moonlit nights on the library campus
- people who tell it to me straight
- certain people that have been very cuddly as of late :)

Everything is swell.

Writing

I Said to Poetry
by Alice Walker


I said to Poetry: "I'm finished
with you."
Having to almost die
before some weird light
comes creeping through
is no fun.
"No thank you, Creation,
no muse need apply.
I'm out for good times--
at the very least,
some painless convention."

Poetry laid back
and played dead
until this morning.
I wasn't sad or anything,
only restless.

Poetry said: "You remember
the desert, and how glad you were
that you have an eye
to see it with? You remember
that, if ever so slightly?"
I said: "I didn't hear that.
Besides, it's five o'clock in the a.m.
I'm not getting up
in the dark
to talk to you."

Poetry said: "But think about the time
you saw the moon
over that small canyon
that you liked so much better
than the grand one--and how surprised you were
that the moonlight was green
and you still had
one good eye
to see it with

Think of that!"

"I'll join the church!" I said,
huffily, turning my face to the wall.
"I'll learn how to pray again!"

"Let me ask you," said Poetry.
"When you pray, what do you think
you'll see?"

Poetry had me.

"There's no paper
in this room," I said.
"And that new pen I bought
makes a funny noise."

"Bullshit," said Poetry.
"Bullshit," said I.


In the middle of the night I dreamed a poem about the Queen of Cups.  I don't remember much of it, just that her cup was fashioned from the salt of oceans and tears...yesterday, I wrote the beginning of a poem about the Queen of Swords, discussing the strength of the grass as it meets the scythe.  Lines are bumping out of me clumsily, while I brush my hair or do the dishes.  Lines are whispering in my ear while I fasten necklaces and put on rings.  They keep knocking, and I'm starting to write them down so I recognize them when they come to the door again, in another form.

I'm writing on a blog for the Unnamed Non-Profit and I'm also in charge of creating a blog for the library I'm working at part-time. I just wrote my second wedding ceremony, and I think it's quite good (and that's rare- I usually think my writing is rather banal.)  I'm also beginning the first stages of a children's book- S and I are going to collaborate on it, and I'm very excited.

I remember asking the Universe for more time to write. At the time, I assumed I would be writing poetry at 6am or midnight or whatever time the passionate and poetic sit down with their Muse for the Serious Business of Flowing Metaphor. Instead, my Muse hangs out behind my desk, likes Earl Grey Creme tea, reminds me to use fewer commas, pesters me to find upbeat facts about mental illness and encourages me to find interesting things to write about libraries. Yikes bikes! Still, it seems that this work has primed the pump; let's see what comes out, shall we?

I know it's Sunday because I've...

- woken up snuggling a little Yorkie
- made some coffee
- went to church
- had Earl Grey Creme tea while doing a crossword with B
- lit some honey amber incense
- watered the plants
- started some laundry
- answered some emails

I am now off to do yoga, change out laundry, and meditate for a while. Then, on to work.

Life is...life.