Greening

I wake to a dim light peeking around the curtains, the house silent in the grip of dreamland.

These walls are so thin that I swear I could hear you breathing through them, so I slip out into the greening world as the sun slowly slides above the horizon. The last of the stars fading into the sunrise golden pink light.

The wind in the trees rustles as they speak with their neighbors, and the breeze plays with my sleep-touseled hair. Nesting birds stretch their wings and burst into song as the world awakens around me.

Grass under my bare feet is cool and dewed with mist from the sprinklers and I have a sudden desire to spread my arms wide, dive in and swim that green and fragrant sea, passing ladybugs drying their wings before searching for their aphid breakfasts.

With each slow stroke of my arms I feel that deep turning pain crack and flake away, drifting and sinking into the depths, like snowflakes in spring, melting and reborn as droplets of water as they land.

I want to stay soaked in that sweet sea, but I make my way to shore, back to the house and reality. The knob silently turns in my hand and I enter to the same dimly-lit thin walls, but something has changed.

The you-shaped void within me no longer feels so hollow and cold. Instead I find a greening bud unfolding in my chest and I curl to cradle the feeling protectively, but that isn't what buds need.

I unfold and turn towards the window, throwing the curtains wide allowing the sunbeams to dance across the ledge and I turn to face the light.

Pieces of Me

I leave pieces of me everywhere I go; molecules connected to the places I once was, was loved, and even some to those places I never want to see again. Some are locations I can no longer go, lost to time and tide, like keys to a door I can no longer access as the locks have changed, preventing me from revisiting where I once played, breathed and dreamed. A past I was too young to recognize as swift and fleeting.

I can't help but wonder of those pieces of me left behind. Do they quietly watch the passage of time, noting the changing seasons and years passing but wishing I could return, and if I did, would they even recognize me as the person I am now?

How strange to picture the breaths I exhaled and the pieces of my heart left sprinkled across the landscape of my life. Are those very breaths still being carried on the wind? If I searched would I find my heart and flesh embedded into the very soil I loved and trod across barefoot as a child?

Are traces of my heart buried in the sediment and layered in time like some ossified skeleton of ancient beasts for a future scholar to find? And what must that stranger think, breathng in the breaths of me through time?

Are these scents that trigger a memory merely the adult I am now rebreathing past exhalations, holding them warm and fluttering within my chest to wrap me in nostalgia like a forgotten but much-loved comfortable sweater?

What a Pandora's box of desire to wish these keys that invisibly tie me to my past, present and future cannot be taken from a pocket and used whenever I would like. To take a peek at what will inevitably become my past or to linger in a distant memory of splashing through puddles and bathing in the scent of a long-forgotten storm stirring in the wind and making the trees shiver and sigh.

But then those keys that would open up old dreams also lead to the nightmares that are best left buried in the moments they belong, no longer haunting me with the pain they inflicted and the ghost of old torments, like a spiderweb touching your face as you stumble in the dark. Can you really have one without the other? Likely not.

So here I sit in quiet reflection as a treasured moment of time caught up with me, marveling at its clarity, though I am sure that the golden edges rimming them now were not present at the time they were formed.

Maybe keys are not needed after all...especially if they keep the hurt at bay.

Its the dilemna, isn't it: if you give a mouse a cookie? Well, if you hand this girl a set of keys please be sure to have them carefully labelled or provide a map. There is too much idle curiosity in me to resist taking a peek and getting caught in the mire as it all escapes across the scattered landscape. possibly to be lost forever.

Is there some ancient bloodhound who can track the course of my time upon this earth, snuffling its way from memory to memory? Perhaps he can pause in his course puzzling out what caused yet another piece of my heart to be left behind or so many tears to fall and help to collect the tangled remains.

The heart is the one organ you can break and yet it keeps on beating....

I admit I don't often preface my writings, but I feel I need to do so in this case. What you are about to read was written 10 years ago, at the lowest point in my life. Even now I still struggle with stress issues and what I will politely call melancholy, though it really has a rather unromantic sounding and very real medical name.
At this moment which you are about to read, I truly and completely was broken and had lost pieces of myself I wasn't sure I would ever regain. It rambles, yes, but this was truly me, sitting in front of a screen and trying vainly to make sense of the mess I was inside.
I never published this, as it is a very real look into a dark and bleak time. In my life I have always tried to present myself with just the sunny bits showing, leaving the ugliness inside and covered up. But we cannot live like that for always. Life is full of both the good parts and the bad. It's a balancing act that sometimes feels like it is tipped for the worst and will never recover, but that is just how depressive conditions tend to see things.
This one is going to be a two-parter. Part one, which you are about to read, is the bleakness. Part two, which will come in a day or so, will be how I am today, a decade later. This week's theme, surprising, given the subject matter, is ALIVE. It is my hope that by the time this week's theme is drawn again sometime in the future, that I can revisit this. With a lot of work and some good kharma on my side, I have high hopes (and fingers crossed) that maybe next time I will truly be as sunny as I like people to believe I always am.



Not all wounds are visible. Sometimes I wish they were… if someone were to see me walking around with the gaping hole where my heart once was, they could not possibly fail to acknowledge my pain was real… that my grief, was a blackness that overwhelmed me, often without warning.

I feel as if I was stumbling through my days in a fog. I can't remember what I ate (or if I ate), I double and triple check myself to be sure that I have not somehow forgotten to put on a shirt or socks or some other necessary garment, because I can't stop recognizing that a large part of me is now missing. I wander into stores in a daze and wander out again with a cartload of groceries, not even certain what I just purchased or if I even remembered to buy the necessities (cat food, deodorant)… I have no idea of how long I had been in there, just wandering the aisles. I couldn't even remember when the last time was that I eaten a piece of fruit or something that was more healthy than bad.

It seems like its been years that I have been like this… This has been a very lousy year for me, and I, for one, am more than happy to see 2012 go and never rear its ugly head again. I have always considered myself fairly even-keeled, but this year really kicked me in the teeth.

I guess it really started just over a year ago. I got married; something that is supposed to be the happiest day of a girl’s life… and it was. But I had a lot of s

tress planning things out, and my load at work was increasing as well. I was in the ER the day before the wedding, and went back in the following weekend for stress-related issues. By the time Christmas rolled around I was a mess…. I was working insane hours and got to a point where I was crying from exhaustion and flying off the handle over any little thing because I JUST COULD NOT HANDLE ONE MORE THING ON ME RIGHT THEN.

We hired a co-worker and things eased up, but my stress levels were still a mess… so much so that my doctor put me on medications to help take the load off as my body was incapable, at that time, of regulating itself. I started easing up, stopped being so much of a witch, and, by summer I began to feel as if I was finally regaining some control over my life again….

….and then my brother died. The person who has known me the longest and, up to this point, best in this life. The one person who fills nearly every childhood memory I have..... and who I had grown to consider my best friend now that we were adults.

I admit I held it together for as long as I had to - and when I finally allowed myself to fall to pieces, all these months later, I did so with pretty spectacular results. I ended a friendship that had gone on for the majority of my life. I finally put my foot down to the people making so many demands on me and said “enough” (though I feel hideous for both actions). I spend my days feeling like I was falling to pieces all over again… and that’s probably not even close to being an accurate description of my state of mind.

I am a walking war zone…. there are days spent without bombs thrown by either side; I can look past the ruins and see the beauty that still exists around me. Other days the bombardment starts again and the world is nothing but loud noises, smoke and devastation. Steam rises from craters where once green meadows lay.

Maybe I am made up of glass.... so clear that you can see the fractures that run right through me. If you were to tap me would I ring hollowly, like a bell? Am I so delicate that the slightest wind would fracture me into a thousand pieces? Like Humpty Dumpty, there would be no putting my life together again into what it was before, because that girl is gone... just as the person who had always been there in my life is gone. Gone to a place that I am unable to follow at this time. I know that I will be with him again, but that does not make this broken thing that was my heart beat any easier.

I wonder some days if I should go into counseling…. But then, what would they tell me that I don’t already know?

I wonder if I should speak to my doctor about going back on the stress meds…. I sigh, and realize that I probably should. Anything is better than the wreck and ruin that I am now. I hate medications, but I have to admit that I am foundering a lot right now, and need something to help clear my head. I am sure that the holiday season isn't helping, since this was our favorite time of the year.... and I know that time will help heal the pains that I feel, but there will always be a scar where that missing piece once fit.

What a mess life can become when you least expect it. I should be happy, thrilling to the marriage that should still be in its honeymoon stage. Instead I find myself constantly in the dumps; crying hysterically in the car on my way home (I wonder what must go through the minds of the drivers around me who probably can’t help but notice the girl falling to pieces in the car alongside of them). The girl who freaks out with the least provocation. Who can’t seem to handle the least of tasks without feeling defeated… who can’t help but wonder if everyone around her is sick of watching her not regaining control and let all this go… the girl who wonders why the whole world isn't flooded by all the tears that she's shed.

I try to be kind to myself right now.... to allow myself the comfort that I don't want to trouble others for. I know that life will go on, and that while I am going to be in pain for a long time, that I will one day build a bridge over the hole that will remain. It still doesn't help me to stop missing you.... and missing the girl that I was when you were here.

I don't think I ever told you thank you enough for all you did for me... for all the times you listened... for all the times you cared. I miss you so much... even all the little things that used to annoy me I would gladly put up with again. But wishing isn't going to change things. Wishing will not bring back our weekly dinners.... or your "surprise" birthday parties for me where you would fill the house with all of your friends.... or the even less of a surprise parties where you'd give me a list of who all to invite for your own birthday. It would not bring back long talks... or the new closeness we started right before you went away. It will not bring back any of the countless things we shared over the course of our lives.

The Sound Of Thunder

Want to hear this post read to you? Click here to be directed to my SoundCloud account.

I recently saw a sign encouraging us to "be the thunder in the storm". 

I had to stop and think on that- it sounds all empowering and good, but what does that really mean? Are we to be loud? Are we to suck the air deep into our lungs and let it out again with a resounding boom? Leave the air around us vibrating as we scream and scream and scream until the world is drowned out?

I think we may need to be ready to speak loudly, but thunder isn't always overpowering in order to be firm and heard. It may not be as spectacular as the lightning, but it also isn't leaving the place in flames when it crashes down. 

Be more substance and less flash.  Thunder doesn't always boom- sometimes its merely a whisper on the edge of the storm. 

Sometimes a loud voice is needed to be heard over the din, but more often its the simple rumbling of "its okay, I'm here" that a friend needs at that very moment before the skies break open and the world drowns in tears.

Be present. Be there. Even if you aren't seen.

The Power of One Little Word

One little word. The holidays. The two would not mix. 

One little word and the promise I made to myself, let alone to all of you was laid to waste in scattered ruins.

One little word that stymied me, following me and throwing up mental roadblocks day after day which then extended month after month. 

The seasons changed. Winter became spring, and spring, that ever-growing season began bustling away towards summer. 

One little word. 

And I was flummoxed. I was its mental hostage. It turned its hate-filled eyes my way and lifted a club menacingly over my head. 

But that's silly, you say. Words aren't angry, hateful or damaging. Well, yes they can be that way... depending on how the recipient takes them... or how you presented them. 

"Any other word!" I cried. 

I even dreamt of putting the chosen piece of paper back into the box and drawing a new one. Or better yet, throwing the chosen word away. But how would that be fair? After all, I am supposed to be writing about anything and everything that comes from its innocent clay form. 

 

I let it laugh at me. I let it stifle my creativity. I let it win. 

This one word, to a girl who loves words, was going to be my undoing. 

Until today... 

 Today I looked at my computer and said, "You will not defeat me. My creativity may have been bashed about and battered, but it is not broken!" 

Quite the statement....perhaps I should have shouted the words, making them my rallying cry. 

"YOU WILL NOT DEFEAT ME!" 

And I, in surprise sat down, logged in, and wrote this. 

It only took minutes and then it was done. Short. Sweet. And not the least bit scary after all. Why did I allow this to hang over me for so long? 

What is it about a word...six tiny letters... that stopped me from moving forward? 

That, I cannot say. Perhaps just its meaning. It's defining presence. But no more. Begone word, until you are drawn once more on some future day. 

And for you, gentle readers... I am here. 

Today was brought to you by the word, BASHED.

The Magic of Snow

I awake to a ballet on a stage of white: forms leaping and twirling in their graceful dance upon drifts of air. Downy flakes drift from the sky, growing heavy under a warmth that threatens to transform their crystalline bodies into something infinitely more liquid.

I come out and pause a moment in reflection of snowflakes once captured on my tongue.  A random thought of tasting one again comes and passes as I move to take shelter in  my car, shaking the stowaway flakes from my hair and watching as they melt before they can hit the floor.

I drive; a reluctant participant in this impromptu third act on the stage of winter, and I wonder when did I stumble from childhood into this person I have become.

I have heard the sledders at night on the hill; their shrieks and laughter carry over the hush of snow, but I do not think to join them.  I think only of the warmth of my four walls and blankets of wool rather than the chilly white I once plunged into making angels of snow upon the lawn. I have grown cautious where once I would have roamed unfettered by the thought of wet socks and a runny nose.

When did I let go of childish adventures I wonder.  When did I trade youthful exuberance for adult restraint?
Did it pass while I slept?  Was it wished away with the blowing out of candles on a birthday long past? Or is it the result of some changeling being left in my place while I and those around me failed to notice.

I may still dream, but I have forgotten how to play, and find myself the poorer in soul for it.

I pull up to work, my driving done for the moment.  I look up at the flakes still swirling down and smile as they dance around as if enticing me to join them.  I hesitate a moment before thrusting my arms out and twirling; I open my mouth and sample the first snowflake in what seems a lifetime.  Its chill on the tongue passes quickly, but it tastes as sweet as they did long ago.

I lose myself for that moment and simply thrill at the scent of snow.

A passing car honks, bringing me from my play I allow myself a few more twirls before gathering up my things and making my way indoors.

Maybe I am not as lost as I thought after all.

Bonus!  As this blog is taken from word inspirations written by my brother, I thought I would share his own little thought on winter in here.

We Enter At The Close

The hills have been plowed under;
 rich, chocolate soil thick as velvet exposed to the warmth of the sun.
I climb down and wrap myself in its deep comfort.

I drink the dew;
the taste of spiderwebs and old leaves crisp on my tongue,
like an aged cider of the fall's dwindling days.

Content, I snuggle beneath the loamy layers
 and listen for the deep thump thump thump of nature's heartbeat,
slowing for its season of rest.

Together we await our rebirth,
watching as fireflies dance their last amongst the stars;
ancient mariners adrift in the sea of approaching twilight

With the spring you will find us,
green, growing, stretching towards the heavens
with nothing but hope and possibilities before us.

image courtesy of lovethispic.com

My Homeland

The idea that I have been pondering for some time now is "My Homeland".

Homeland.... an idea that could embrace a myriad of things.

Is it my country, or is that too grand of a scale?  Is it the state that I live in, or the city?  Is it where I was born, or where I currently live?  Can it change over the years, or does it remain unchanging with the passing of time?  Where do I find it?  Does it somehow lodge itself inside of me and become a part of my being?

Over a decade ago I came across a phrase that I loved, and painted on a wooden board which has hung in every home I have had since.

"Home is where your story begins" 

I still believe that, but, perhaps if I were to paint this signpost again, I would expand on it.  Perhaps it should read, "Home is where your story begins and it guides you chapter by chapter in the epic that is your life".  Its a bit wordy, but that doesn't make it any less true.

For many, homeland is what you use to identify yourself, as in "I'm an American".  We sometimes feel the need to narrow that down, where my husband, after identifying himself as a Texan, would elaborate "I'm from San Antonio".  There is a certain pride and emotion in the places and things we identify ourselves with.  We are not just the place that we are from, but who and what we associate ourselves with.  For me, "I am a Mormon" is an important part of my identity.  

My personal homeland is a complex thing, added to over the years, layer upon layer, like some pearl forming deep within the core of my being; an integral part of me that has helped me develop into the person that I am.  It is the thing within that defines me, a reserve within me that I can draw upon when I find myself on rocky shoals and in need of solid ground.  

My core, built from my experiences consists not only of places, but of things, memories, people... all of which have influenced me for good or ill in my life.  Not all of the experiences are pleasant, but all have, in some way, brought me strength or peace.  The darker sides of that core are still there.... a childhood of abusive words and bullying left me for a long time struggling to feel a positive self worth.  A former destructive marriage partner at one point had me struggling with issues of trust.  While these experiences are part of me, and always will be, that pearl is continually building up.  Like the natural pearl, some of these experiences will cause bulging on one side or another, but the layers built since those experiences are ones that have proven time and again that I have an inner strength and resiliency.  I may not have wanted some of those memories and experiences, but I have changed them to where they now help, rather than hinder me.

So who am I?  What things do I identify as my own personal "Homeland"?

Well, silly as it may sound, I am part of a global family, one who shares the lands and waters of this marvelous blue ball we call Earth.  I am an American, and am proud of the fact that my forebears worked to come to this land where I have so many freedoms and opportunities available to me.

I was born in California, but I am, in my heart, a Washingtonian as I was raised in its mountains and forests, and nestled amongst its rolling hills of wheat, barley and alfalfa.  My heart and soul still thrills at seeing the tall grasses waving in the breeze like some vast, rolling green inland sea.  I find peace in the sound of the wind as it roars through the trees, giving them voice to call out to their brothers in century-slow voices.  I love experiencing things in nature that others do not seem to notice.

As such, I consider myself a country girl, and one of simple pleasures.  As I said before, I am a Mormon and feel blessed to count myself among such a wonderful congregation of people.  

I am a wife, and while I have not been blessed with children of my own, that has not stopped me from being a mothering presence to those in need of it.  I am a part of my family here, and I love them dearly.  Home is never felt stronger for me than when I am near my loved ones and when we are together.

I am a friend and confidant.  

There are so many things tied up into what I consider my own personal definition of home that there is no way to fully explain it to you, as home is something that has to be felt in the heart.  And, sadly, most of us are judged on our outward appearance as the things of the heart just cannot be fully expressed in words.  Its taken a long time for me to find peace with that idea... that there are just some things that people are unable to know.

As a child, when I was bullied it was hard to think good about myself, because I did not have that reserve developed.  I would hide myself away to cry and wonder what it was about me that made me so different that it would subject me to ridicule.  It couldn't have been just my weight, because some of the kids who teased me were overweight themselves, or had other such defects that should have made them the subject of teases and taunting.  I took it to mean that there was something lacking in me... and for years I allowed that to define me.  I still found my simple pleasures, but I told myself that they were silly little imaginings and that I should let such childish things go... that I had to grow up.

I am glad that I never really got around to taking my own advice, because my imagination is a strong part of who I am.  It is what forms me into the creative person that I am today.  It has also shown me compassion towards others... even those that are not kind to me, and respect for others, even when they are different from me.

Most importantly, I am me.  Just me.... simple sometimes, and complex others. I am the culmination of my experiences and thoughts, and I can choose what I will allow myself to keep bright and shiny on the surface for any to see or what to allow to sink to the depths, to be let go of and be replaced with things more suitable to my nature and what I want to be.  

I am home, and I carry it within me, wherever I roam in life.  All this and more encapsulated within and yet flowing throughout my core; freely shared with those around me.  Home is what you make of it... it is the things that you allow to define yourself and your relationship to the world that surrounds you.  It is an ever-growing and ever-expanding place within your heart that you never need let go of, and yet is infinite enough to share time and time again.

Home is love.

   

Dash - Dashing - Dashed...

Today's rambling is brought to you by the word Dash…

We can go dashing through the snow….
and dash away, dash away, dash away all….
Or we could be dashed against the rocks (ouch!)

We can add a pinch of salt and a dash of pepper…..

Mr Darcy is considered to be one of the most dashing literary figures, however, I still prefer Mr. Rochester…
Don't forget about My Little Pony’s Rainbow Dash
Who would probably be good at the 500 meter dash….

With punctuation the hyphen is also called a dash... funny, it also looks like a minus sign…..
I just learned there is a difference between dashes!
There is an en dash - which means single dash
and an em dash - - which means two dashes
And you can use three dashes --- for starting quotations!
(you learn something new every day).
And if we’re talking punctuation there is also that cute little wavy dash ~ we can’t forget about him.

Fighter pilots wear a DASH – A Display and Sight Helmet

Queen Victoria has a dog named Dash
An archeologist named Aurel Stein has named every single one of his dogs Dash (must make it easy to remember when calling the poor things)

It is no wonder that people find the English language a bit of a pill to learn…. When one little word can mean several different things, its easy to be confused.

Over the Rainbow

Over. Hmmmmm...... "Somewhere over the Rainbow". Judy Garland... what a lovely tune, melancholy, but lovely. How does one get over a rainbow anyway? Perhaps I found a magical ladder that allowed me to climb high enough so I could slide down one brightly-hued fractal of light to its other side? Which leads me to wonder just where do we get the phrases that we use so often? These sweetly twisted words that create a life of their own, beyond that of their individual worth.... what is it that causes words to have such a hold over me? To steal away with my imagination (a theft I don't mind in the least as it always comes back to me properly exercised and harmlessly entertained) and allows me to wander down pathways of thinking that I may otherwise never have taken. There is a power in words...for words can lift you up and over even the most intangible of obstacles. I believe in words.... in the hands of some they wound, for others they heal. For me? If I am being honest then its a bit of both... we all use words for ill at some point in our lives, when we are hurt or frustrated, but I would like to think that for me they do more good than harm. Some words are loaded, like guns.... others can only inspire joy... like daisies. How can you find hurt in a sweet word like that? Over is a word of many implications. You can use it so angrily ("I am sooooo over you!") or spread it out to signify relief ("wow, glad I made it over THAT hurdle!") or even use it as stage direction ("you go over the river and through the wood"). Words like over are ones that need to be used ever so carefully, for you never know when it may creep up behind you and smack you upside the head ("I can't believe you ran right over my wishes on this!"). But then my mind wanders to running over wishes.... how does one do that? Did you leave them lying in the street for anyone to smash? My, my, my....how careless of you. Hope you get over it.