Monthly Archives: November 2012

When the Soul Speaks

As a writer I would rather touch only a handful of people with my raw words than a million who digest them quickly, easily and without pause. Yes, the one way lends itself better for financial gain. But that was a risk I took when I allowed my soul to speak.

Nonetheless, there is no wrong way to write, in my opinion. We writers are merely expressing ourselves in a multitude of different ways and for about the same amount of reasons. Some styles appeal to me, some do not. I won’t render any of them as better or less than. All are worthy. Some people get caught up in the placement of a comma, or the placement of a participle. Some people get caught up in what other’s think. Some get caught up in academic training. I find all of that to be a shade off of what’s truly important. But then again, many people get caught up on the theoretical guidelines of life, and in the process – forget to live.

Well, dear reader please know that I write like I live. I strive less for perfection and more for expression. I give more credence to how I feel than the laws that try to govern my existence. I commune daily with God, yet refrain from religion. My writing is distinct and raw. And when speaking, I speak the truth or say nothing at all. You must understand, this means there are times when I am awfully, awfully quiet. Lastly, although I can’t imagine attempting to control or hurt anyone, I’m brutally aware that the attempt to do so is widespread and often done in the most unassuming of ways. And I often touch upon that awareness within my writing.

Things are beginning to shift in the world; evidenced by the different ways we are choosing to express ourselves. Many are beginning to see the connection between the body, mind and soul. More so, they are beginning to realize that the connection is necessary to a healthy life. The soul when mixed with the mind, loves to express itself. Hence art becoming more and more diversified; music growing exponentially in its differing forms; and the profound number of books being published every day.

There are those that still try to pigeon-hole these different forms of expression; rendering one acceptable and the other not. When money is involved, things get a bit stifled and unpleasant. The powers that be look for more of what made money in the past, hoping that history will repeat itself until stumbling haphazardly onto something new; then it becomes history’s new marker. So if you are a writer, artist or musician struggling to secure the acceptance and financial backing from the powers that be – please know it may have little to do with you and a great deal to do with the fact that they don’t know how to ensure making a profit from your work.

To me the writer with a book on the NY Times Bestseller list is no better than the one that has used the last of their money to secure a booth at a Book Fair where they hope to peddle their wares. One just managed to get drop kicked out of obscurity, the other did not.

So as your soul and mind create, remember that you are doing what you are meant to do. Whether you are acknowledged by many or acknowledged by few. But keep creating. Never question the purpose or beauty of your craft. It became worthy by the simple act of you doing it.

Dearest dearest reader, be sure to dance without a care for conformity; write without a care for judgement; and sing without worrying if the sound will please others. Because these things that we do, we do because we must. The soul needs to speak, and it does so in the most unique and diverse of ways. Let no one judge your way.

Sane

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Tiny Bubbles

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There is a term used by those closest to me when describing what is commonly known as red flags within a romantic relationship: Bubbles. And there is hardly anything more disheartening than watching that first bubble emerge, then crack upon the surface of the water.

When young, more often than not, we formed unions based upon every reason in the book except the right ones. When older, and after having lived through a few perilous relationships, we submerge ourselves into the dating waters carefully. Or I should say, this is the method used by me and my closest, single friends. Me being the one that refused to go into the water for the longest time.

There is a period when getting to know someone during which, although blissful, we hold our breath within ourselves. This period being the first moments after our head goes under, and we find ourselves captivated. It is the period between discovery and total release. It’s as if all parties involved fill their lungs with air, then try to determine the structural integrity of the other. For me, I will admit, this does not happen often or easily. And perhaps, this is why amongst the others, I tend to be the most ungraceful of underwater swimmers.

Bubbles in no way are deal breakers. They do not necessarily hint toward the imminent drowning of anyone. Having said that, they do require a bit of thought. These small signs are indicators that things might not be held together as strong as we had hoped. Things might not be able to last as long as we had hoped. During my marriage I saw bubbles early. I ignored their presence and often blamed them on something else. When the truth was, they were signs that things were quickly loosing air. Now, as soon as I see a small bubble my eyes close softly, as I know I must honor the promise I made to myself to never again ignore what I am being shown.

Blame it on age, but we tend not to live just in the now when it comes to romantic pursuits. Instead, we take serious consideration as to the fact that what is in our now may also be what is in our future. Knowing also that a small bubble often becomes larger in time, we tend not to separate the two, now and then, as we did in our youth. Ignorance is bliss they say, and yet that truth has never been mine. So we plunge deeper, and examine from where the bubbles emerged.

I say all this with clear knowledge that we all have chinks; areas in which a bit of air can escape for the most benign of reasons. But instead of being an ever smiling young girl who saw bubbles as a mere byproduct of dating, I now pull back and exam things again. Ever thinking. Softly considering. Although I refrain from running at the sign of something that makes me wince, years of living with bubbles that explode upon the water’s surface was not healthy, nor fun. So if the bubbles are streaming upward in a steady pattern, I will remove myself.

I have to believe by the time a person becomes acclimated to staying underwater for long stretches, they’ve also managed to find someone who does not emit too imposing of bubbles. I really can’t say however, as none of us has felt compelled to stay under water that long. But one day we will.

Highly metaphoric meanderings tonight, no doubt. But often when I am most talking about something, I choose to do so by talking most about seemingly nothing.

Sane

Running Away

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One of the most tangible memories I have as a child was of my brother, mother and me fleeing for our lives from my father. It seemed even while on vacation we were not given a reprieve from the instability that was the crux of my childhood. As memories go, it is one that still has texture and sound. I can hear my mother screaming for us to get into the car. I can hear my father beating his fist hard on the hood as the motor struggled to turn over. I remember the way I trembled. I remember the fear in my mother’s eyes. I remember the profound silence that permeated the chaos of the moment. More than anything, I can still taste the powerlessness.

As the miles separating us from my father’s alcoholic rage increased, I tried to breathe. But I learned early that it was wise only to release small breathes, because soon enough I might be required to once again hold my breath. But there was relief; small but sure. Until my mother turned the car around. And I realized in that instant it was not safe to relax, as we were heading back into the unpredictable storm.

Although this is far from my worst memory. It is a stone imbedded into the foundation that sits at the base of who I am. Held in by years of mortar, this stone would take an army to dislodge. However, I have no intention of doing so, as its not necessary. This one painful piece of foundation carries a purpose. That incident, among many, taught me the delicate-finger hold mankind has on sanity. The frailty that is revealed, the frailty that is hidden.

Although as a child I was powerlessness, as an adult I am not. I look back proudly at my tumultuous past. Because all of those moments created within me a person who would rather wrestle dragons than run from them. My foundation, although painful, is strong. Perhaps something beyond me knew I would require such a footing, and thus it was given to me. Either way, I have it now.

The things that matter to me, differ greatly from many of the things that matter to others. Things that I think little of revealing, often make others cringe due their raw, seemingly vulnerable nature. And yet, to me, these things are neither raw nor vulnerable. They are truths. And truths regardless of their ugliness or concealed sacredness, are strengthened by our acknowledgement of them. More so, we are strengthened by our acknowledgment of them. And by doing such, these markers, stones from our past, take on their own profound beauty. Beauty isn’t always created by the lovely things in life. Beauty can be found through the shades of strength required to survive. Beauty is as much that which is pretty as that which is profound. And through that knowing, I think little of sharing my beauty, as painful as it may be, with you. As I know, it helps you to see the beauty within the part of you that you may view as raw and vulnerable.

There are many kinds of beauty to be seen in this world, if we know where to look. I think its best not to turn our eye only onto those things that are glossy and picturesque. Instead, see beauty in a leaf that has turned its last shade of deep amber before falling to the ground. See it in the eyes of a child who’s waiting nervously to hear that they did well. See it within the most blustery day, and coldest night. Most of all see it when you look at the most frail amongst us, because hidden within them, is someone who has not yet discovered their beauty.

Sane

Listening to Spinnerette – Baptized By Fire

Baltimore Via Albuquerque

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As many of you know, I have two psychics within arms reach. With that in mind it’s easy to make the assumption that I use their words for plotting out my life; much like one would use Google maps. I don’t.

In fact, I would caution anyone that tried to do so. Awhile back I was having lunch with someone, and they asked why it is I occasionally visit these psychics. Although they said my answer didn’t matter, I think it did. People often misconstrue psychics and those who interact with them. There is a stigma that hovers over the topic, as well as a bucket load of skepticism. All I can say to either of those two issues is to seek out your own answers. I have mine.

I can only speak in regard to that which I’ve been exposed when it comes to dealing with psychic information. In answering my friend’s question, I shared that there have been moments in my life when no one could even begin to offer me guidance, comfort or understanding. I stood quite alone during some very harrowing times. These two individuals shared with me the information given them, and that information allowed me to breathe. As it turned out, they were both right, independently of one another. In this respect, their words were a God send.

On the other side of the coin, as much as this type of information can be helpful, it can be detrimental. And a good psychic, will tell you as much. Furthermore, they will even state that there are things that will not be revealed to them. Too much information can hinder a person. If one discovers that they are to end up living happily on the east coast. They will flounder and possibly refrain from moving to the desert southwest. But little do they know their fated way to the east coast was via the southwest.

If the information given interferes with one’s ability to freely make decisions, then they are misusing this information. I should interject that it takes a very resolute and purposeful person for these little morsels of information not to cause one to flounder. The last thing we humans want to do is to move in the wrong direction. Often we don’t move at all simply out of fear of going right when we should’ve gone left. So when something is disclosed, and thus interpreted by the mind, we tend to misread what’s being said and shape our decisions around the information. If a psychic were to tell you that on a rainy day you will be winning millions in the lottery, it would change how you viewed a sunny day. And if they told you that you were to become a great professor it would be hard then to follow your dream of becoming a neurosurgeon. Again, not knowing that through being a neurosurgeon you will become a professor. The construct of our mind is always limited to the rate of what we’ve experienced thus far. Yet our future reality is never limited.

There is a difference between muddying the water in one’s life, and simply being told that despite appearances one will remain afloat; yes there is a storm through which you’ll travel, but you’ll make it, and the crew won’t starve. Sometimes it helps immensely to know that one will indeed reach dry land. This type of information, and the method by which it is received, isn’t for everyone. Like a television show, if it isn’t to your liking simply turn to something that is. But if you do visit a psychic that is authentic in their gift, do it with a bit of caution and understanding. Because you don’t want anything causing you to second guess the way you position your sails. The Universe has factored in the supposed wrong turns you will make upon your path, as much as it has factored in your days of smooth sailing. The Universe, God and Fate has planned on you doing both.

Sane

And For That, I’m Thankful

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Quite some time ago, I made a solid decision regarding my life. When I look back over the many trials that’ve come my way, I would not do so begrudgingly. Instead, I would do so with thankfulness at all that I’ve overcome.

When one spends their early years within a turbulent home, vulnerability has a way of imbedding itself within the very cells of their body, not to mention the underpinnings of their mind and heart. And yet, I see the home from which I came as supplying the building blocks necessary in forming the very singular, if not peculiar, view I have of people. It takes years for a miner to become skilled at eyeing the thin vein of gold that runs through quartz. But once their eye is trained, their work becomes easier. I have seen human frailty at its most desperate. I have watched the mind crumble into tiny pieces. I have watched people struggle with others because of their profound struggle with themselves. My miner’s eye came from my upbringing. And for that I am thankful.

When one sits within a bustling intensive care unit, yet hears nothing except the words spoken hours ago by the surgeon about to save one’s son, they learn that often Providence comes disguised. God is a magnificent force that will find any means by which to speak, touch and be. Whether by the words of a writer that causes one to view life differently, lyrics to a song that pierce the heart and causes one to feel less alone, or through the hands of a stranger about to operate on one’s son. I can’t imagine limiting the ways of God. And often, I struggle to understand why some try. Doing so would be like trying to capture the sound of music within one’s hand; impossible. I now see God in all things, and often within all people; even when they never will, within their lifetime, see it themselves. And for that I am thankful.

When one is faced with unfathomable challenges they learn of their own unshakable strength. Strength is not found upon life’s easier roads. Endurance of the body, mind and soul are all found when put to the test. I’ve been tested. I have fallen. But I have risen again. And regardless of anything that may come my way, I know, I have the strength to rise again. That strength is with me now everywhere I go. And for that I am thankful.

When one spends their life living haunted by the shadow of themselves, they either never rest or one day turn and look into the eye of their inner being. My inner being, my spirit, has always wanted to speak. When young it whispered delicately in my ear. It allowed me to walk in the night knowing I was never alone. When older, the unidentified duality within myself caused more discomfort than comfort. To find solid footing, I would smother this voice, only to have it push hard to be heard. When one denies who they are, they unwittingly choose a slow suicide. My death was slow. But as most bodies do, my spirit took a final gasp for air. And when it did, I listened. I learned that my life required working together with this voice. Now, more often than not, this voice speaks for me. Its words are those that tell us we are all divine, and we must push on toward happiness. We are of value, and owe ourselves the very best. When I forget, this voice reminds me that we are meant to smile. And it is my job to find what will make that happen. That voice also told me I needed to write. And to this day, writing is my breath. And for that I am thankful.

I do not look back upon this rough road with sadness. I look back knowing that I am blessed. And I look forward knowing within the deepest part of me that I am living my life’s purpose. And, in the doing, I have touched the hearts of many. I must also say that I am profoundly blessed each and every time a reader scans their eyes smoothly over my words; their voice whispering my sentiments inside their mind. This is not wealthy work I am doing. Entertaining you, speaking to you, is my life’s work however. And for that I am thankful.

Sane

Intellectual Symmetry

I’ll be damned. I just discovered I’m a sapiosexual.

Sapiosexual/Sapiosexuality (sā-pē-ō-sĕk-shü-ăl’ĭ-tē). A behavior of becoming attracted to or aroused by intelligence and its use. Origins: From the Latin root sapien, wise or intelligent, and Latin sexualis, relating to the sexes.

Had I known this core truth about myself years ago, it would’ve saved me two failed marriages; not to mention, a few misaligned hook-ups. But as things go, it takes time to discover something of this magnitude. I believe in the power of contrast. I feel it is why our world is so vast in nature. To develop a true understanding of one’s inclinations, desires and dreams, one has to be given a chance to sample the buffet that is offered in this world. Unfortunately, this sampling doesn’t happen quickly, or in a benign manner with plate in hand, ambling along a long table of life’s choices. Usually we find ourselves bound by a contract to someone we are quite certain is the anti-Christ or at least a first cousin thereof, and seated in a job that sucks the very marrow from our bones.

Once the realization is made however, it is up to us to choose differently – next time. Steering ourselves away from what we know we don’t want, and toward that which we feel we do. Even then, more tweaking might become necessary. Life isn’t black and white. Our choices are made out of many.  Even within the field of “getting warmer,” honing of our desires is vital. Not to find perfection. But to find true symbiotic harmony.

Romantically speaking, I refuse to sit across from a man whom I do not find intellectually stimulating. And as much as it may seem unnecessary to possess such an attribute for a simple romp in the hay – it still is for me. Where I’m concerned, foreplay isn’t simply the bandying about of sensual words. No. To me, nothing is more enticing than listening to a man share his intelligence. Not with false bravado and a look-at-me persona, but simply possessing profound knowledge within his field. A man who is good at his craft is an attractive thing. We are all artists, if what we do, we do well and with skill. I am not concerned about his profits. On the other hand, I do have great concern for his integrity, enlightenment and keen intellect.

Not all women are sapiosexuals; for that I’m glad. Let the others glean out the one’s with six-pack abs. A healthy fit body, yes. But one that is carefully carved – not necessary. The only way to open the floodgates of my passions and my body is through my mind. Which admittedly, is a bit impervious. However, such a feat is highly possible; providing one is clever enough to Spiderman their way up the wall.

As we age, it seems the majority fall into one of two categories: the earnest pursuit to fill a void by stuffing it with sexual pursuits or finding intellectual symmetry with another. I am tempted to rule one as better than the other, but who am I to say. Each of us is on a journey. And the journey should not be judged. With that said, I am pleased that I will no longer accept a copilot who doesn’t also see a similar horizon and the same peculiarities along life’s path. He’s out there, this person. Most likely with his nose buried in the map.

Sane

By Definition

The Colors of Claude Monet by Licht

To those who don’t yet know, let not one more day pass wherein you aren’t the sole wordsmith that defines who you are. This is something about which I’m quite passionate. Determine your value, and set the bar high. And define yourself with the words of your choosing.

For many of us, our earliest memories are one’s in which we listened while others defined not just the world around us but us, as well. And as we moved ahead, we carried their definitions tucked under our arm like a Webster’s Dictionary. Misguidedly, we looked outward within those pages to find meaning.

We and we alone know the truths that rest inside our heart, mind and soul. Everything else is someone’s perception. Perception changes with the wind. And when we let those perceptions define us, we too are made to shift. One day we are good. The next we are not. Their perception means nothing. What we think of ourselves, means everything.

I determine who I am. I determine how I should be treated. When I allow myself to be treated poorly, I am lowering the bar on myself. We do that sometimes, guided by the best of intentions. And yet, any time someone requires of us to become less than, to be treated as less than the divinely beautiful person we are, we need to step away. But it is our hand that rests on the bar. We and we alone decide when to lift it a notch or send it falling to the floor.

Quite some time ago I decided that I would live by no other labels than the one’s I chose myself. And when I am wise, I choose none. As I change due to my own growth, the only label that would even fit is: Ever-changing. Once I had a spiritual woman tell me of a vision she had of me. Her vision is the closest at defining who I am. It was of me, as a willow tree. My trunk strong, steadfast and grounded deep; all the while my branches flowed wildly in the wind. There is nothing more sublime than reaching outward toward new heights, while knowing one’s center is grounded deep. Because her descriptor resonated with me, I have chosen to keep it. My choice. And its highly accurate.

If ever in a situation wherein you feel in your being that you deserve better, listen. Chances are, that soft voice is speaking a greater truth than you could possibly know using your mind alone. There is a vast difference between the ego clamoring to satiate its appetite for attention and that of valuing one’s self. The one is an outward expression, the other is inward.

I give my best and expect the same in return. Is this a hard stance – yes it is. But only because I value who I am. I keep myself in check, auditing my actions, thoughts and feelings often. But never, do I let someone pen the definition of me. Part of my journey, is to urge you to do the same.

Sane

Listening to Kitten – Cut It Out