Tag Archives: memories

Getting There

It feels like its been awhile since we last spoke; my words mixed with your voice. Please know the absence was felt by me. And like the tug felt to return to one’s beloved shortly after having said goodbye, I’ve felt a similar tug to turn from my other duties, and spend time with you.

I’ve recently finished writing my memoir. And as my fingers glided across the keyboard my mind glided through the years. Once again I relived decades of cyclical moments brought my way for the sole intent of causing my soul to expand. At times, I made that leap. I broke the bonds that kept me held tight within a belief system that no longer served me. I cried a bit while writing certain passages. I remember with detail the pain certain experiences caused me. Then I smiled, knowing often the pain felt was due to the breaking down of old walls; the thicker and more entrenched the walls, the deeper the pain.

I can’t speak for anyone except me. But my growth has almost always come by way of a painful break from the old, before expanding into the new. It is my hope that I never stop expanding, however. I never want to be the flower that grows only so high then dies. No. I want to be the tree that rides through the cyclical seasons. And at some point I become the version of myself that no longer holds tight to those things that no longer serve me. Instead, I drop the leaves, and allow myself to start all over again. Faith says to let go and believe. Fear says to hold tight. I do not feel shame for the person I was; the person that bounced between fear and faith. At each stage I was the version I needed to be to experience what I needed to experience with that particular lens of perception. Every stage was and is needed.

Looking back I can see why, at times, I had let fear rule me. When we open our mind, heart and soul to expansion – it means stepping into a version of ourselves that rests just beyond our conception. That is where the soul wants most to go and yet the psyche holds tight to – what is. Because it knows – what is, and nothing more. There is no shame in that. It is human. Somewhere along the line, I let go. And I’ve been letting go ever since.

I don’t want to be the seed that lies dormant in the ground for fear of what rests above the surface; beyond what my eyes can see. Growth requires faith. And upon my last day I hope to look back and smile; knowing I had God Faith; the kind that is displayed freely by all things not hindered by the psyche. I want to have relied upon the same energy used by the oak seed that knew only to go beyond where its gone before – to grow; to reach upward; to drop its leaves when the time was right; and feel no remorse in starting anew. Its only those outward things that are new, the core stays the same.

Please forgive me for being gone. I’ve just been busy dropping leaves, and writing about what I see scattered on the ground. It is good. And please know, within you rests the same unstoppable force that rests within the seed – just drop your leaves, and believe.


Once Spoken


I am filled with the most peculiar of feelings today; emotions that supersede any knowledge I have of words to describe them. Instead, they sit inside of me much like that of a vapory image; like the transparent feeling left within one’s mind after having caught a glimpse of someone they think they know, only to notice upon second glance that they’re gone. Or, like a memory, having faded, and leaving only its essence behind.

Perhaps my soul knows what it is that I’m feeling; my mind merely hasn’t or refuses to put the pieces together. Words are funny that way; once we label something with a word that has been pressed onto paper, the something that was previously without form and left hanging without certainty, now takes shape. It becomes a thing, once described.

Often, I feel, this is why there’s something cathartic about speaking one’s feelings to another. We are forced to pull together words that will later be called upon and referenced in either a positive or negative light.

I wonder if that is why so many of us hasten to label a relationship, as we don’t know if the label would enhance or diminish that which we feel toward the other. Or, more importantly, if it matches the feelings of the other.

Words, words, words – funny little things. Like a gun they have the ability to kill a person; their heart, their hopes, their dreams. But like air, they can also breathe life into someone who no longer has the strength to breathe on their own. Kind words can lift a person to heights they never knew before. Damaging words can plunge us to depths we never knew possible. And of course, there is that which is unspoken. I find those the most exhilarating and unsettling. Like magic, their power rests in the unknown.

I will bring this to a close still unable, or unwilling to put words to what rests on my heart. Instead, I will try to clear my mind, and in doing so focus upon the trees that are busy closing down for the season. I will listen to the birds, who unlike me, have no concerns over what they are saying. And of course, from this ambiguous place, I will write.

Enjoy your weekend; label it well.


Written to the sound of geese heading south for the winter and silence.

Tuesday Panties and a Rabbit’s Foot


When I was a kid I had a pair of lucky undies, or so I thought. I also had special day-of-the-week panties. I was continually wearing a Tuesday panty on a Sunday, and Friday panty on a Monday, and so forth. But I was convinced my mojo was totally going on when I wore the correct pair on the corresponding day. But, just like the lucky underwear, It really didn’t matter. Even though for the longest time, I was quite certain it did. As a kid, I had no need for logic. I just went with whatever – worked – or seemed to work, at the time. I wasn’t picky.

When something good happens, it puts a chink into our psyche. We are, on some level, forever changed from the experience and the peaceful memory it causes. The human condition will then try to do all it can to replicate, and play over that experience. Something in the mind tells us to mix up the same potion, or listen to the same song, or do whatever we did the first time that stirred up and conjured that experience. It was good then, so let’s relive it now. If this means wearing a certain pair of undies because the last three times we wore them we aced our spelling test or the cute guy smiled at us, then so be it. Often, the mind leaps over common sense when looking for happiness.

These little psychological glitches work in the reverse, as we all know. Supposedly, I’m still riding out an eight year bad luck streak from breaking a mirror. It was a big mirror too, does that matter? Even the most logical among us wonder what if, upon seeing a black cat cross our path. Especially when heading to the doctor. But, I don’t believe in luck: good or bad. I do however, believe in being open and allowing of good things. I can not turn a blind eye to those things that make me cringe, but I do feel if my eye is more focused upon that which makes me smile and feel good, then I will become more in tune and in harmony with those things.

I feel, more than a rabbit’s foot or bauble of good fortune, we possess the power to bring about good things. And we do this first by looking for them. And if we train our eye, then it takes less effort. Life is a conglomeration of all things. Because what is good for one, may be bad for another. Both need to exist.

Life is unpredictable, both for the good and the bad. What’s interesting though is that sometimes within that which appears so unlucky, is the one thing that will bring about a positive change. I no longer try to throw the gavel down either way. Instead, I try to see the good in most things, and if no good can be spotted then I try to simply ride it out while broadening  my view. Sometimes this means, looking and looking and looking. And when I don’t give up, it is usually in that far off corner, where I’ve never looked before, that I find just what I need.


Written to Fat Bottomed Girls by Queen



For much of my life, I’ve been engaged in battle. The worst, was the battle against myself. One can easily drown in their discontent. Like a violent wave, it can pull them under. But there are those who walk into the deep water; as they do, filling their coat pockets with stones: heavy memories, bitter disappointments, and painful insecurities. Once under, some kick violently to reach the surface; others relinquish the fight. I chose to shed the heavy coat, and in the doing, I shed the stones.

Upon reading my words, or upon hearing me speak, it is known instantly, I do not  bury myself under a coat or shroud of any kind. There is no mask or pretense. Although protective, I live quite exposed; my true self revealed through words, spoken or written. Swimming underwater, I said goodbye to all that weighed me down, and the need to be anything other than me.

My life isn’t quite how I want it to be – but after many battles – I am. And from that vantage point I write; content with myself, both the good and the seemingly bad. Because both, its fair to say, form the buoy.

The opening from my latest novel: Safe People.

Chapter 1

Bertie stood naked. Mimicking her motionless frame, her mind remained unmoving. As the hot water showered over her body, she inhaled the steam, and exhaled tired breath. For the moment, she didn’t think of the past, nor of the future. And after escaping into the gentle spaces of mental inertia, she looked down and wondered what was worse: the scars she wore on the outside, or the ones she tried to hide on the inside. 

Post written to: Walk by Foo Fighters

No Room For Logic


It’s an interesting thing, reading the reviews written about one’s books. For the most part, I can pay no more attention to the good reviews than I can the bad – as both have the potential to sway me. And when it comes to writing, I don’t want any factor contributing to the words I write other than the creative energy that moves my fingers.

When a writer considers the fact that their words will be read, it prevents the words from flowing at their natural pace. The creative mind pulls back while the logical mind steps forward. There are many good uses for my logical mind, but writing isn’t one of them.

One thing though, comes from reading reviews; I am given insight into the minds of others. Even if I don’t like what they say, there is value there, at least from a creative perspective. Some have said that the love expressed in my first novel was spot-on; others have said its unrealistic. A few have said it was cheesy at times. As much of the novel parallels my own life, the feelings expressed are factual. And I can say, the best kind of love is the kind that steps deeply into the pool of unabashed expression, a.k.a cheesiness.

Not everyone though, gets the chance to experience such a love. And when they stumble upon it, as an observer, it strikes against their heart. Most want it, but feel the pain of never having had it, or having lost it. When young, we want only to love deeply, and with abandon. After aging, we become embittered toward that which we can’t seem to obtain; wealth, health, happiness, and love.

The words spoken by lovers of yesteryear were intense to the point of appearing unbelievable if spoken today. Instead, today’s world works hard to mold us into generic beings when it comes to emotions; we keep our feelings guarded. We punch onto a keyboard computer generated letters. No longer do we have the romance of a hand written note. Instead of a face staring at us from across the table, we have one-dimensional pictures by which to identify ourselves. Harsh words are said with ease due to the buffer of anonymity and cyberspace. In a world of full exposure, we are more hidden than ever. We have truly forgotten the art of love, as well as the art of expressing what we feel. What hasn’t changed, is that we feel and want with the same intensity.

We live in a sheltered world. Yet, our hearts, want for the innocence of true love, and the ecstasy of being loved with fervor. It only seems unrealistic when we believe it to be out of the realm of our personal reality. A reality we want, but are too embarrassed to admit.

With that said, I hope for everyone, that before they draw their final breath, they too feel the type of love that shakes them to the core. Because, that’s what happens when the soul falls in love. The soul has no need for logic, nor to temper how it feels.

If we are to dance as if no one is watching – then write as if no one is reading, and love as if you’ll never get hurt.


Written to The Logical Song by Supertramp

This Is My Wish


I have to wonder, does the sun get lonely. So often it is watched with longing and soft sentiments, but nothing more. Does it whisper to the moon upon their passing. And when it does – does the moon smile, and reply.

There are those who live with one foot in this world, and one foot out. Never once do they know the feeling of sublime complacency. Instead, they hover between the two: the world that displays these words before your eyes, and the world where the words were formed.

The ethereal world that sits just beyond our view, sits blatantly in mine. Often, I wish it weren’t so. There are two kinds of writers: those who write and those who write from the soul. The latter, like the sun, is never quite at home – regardless of how bright they shine, or how natural they may appear. Don’t let this scare you. This isn’t lunacy. Lunacy is to deny what is. It takes unquestionable sanity to claim it.

When I cry, my soul cries. When I laugh, my soul joins me. And when I write, my soul speaks. I have to imagine, this is felt by those around me. Perhaps that is why I hold most at bay.

When I sit this weekend, and pour my first glass of Côtes du Rhône, I will be making a wish. Instead of blowing out candles, and casting that wish into the stars, I will send it across the world within this missive. And that wish is: That everyone sees their beauty. That they not battle their demons for too many years before coming to peace with who they are. And if, like me, they only have one foot in, let that foot be firmly planted.

That is my wish. The telling of it, is my journey.

I never feel alone when I sit with the sun, or the moon. Perhaps because we know how the other feels. They are as much a part of this world, as they are a part of the world beyond our eyes. And yet, we both just keep soldiering on.


Written to Into The Mystic by Van Morrison

Dare I Say…Quirky.


Famed author, John Cheever, dressed in suit and hat, then with everyone else, rode the elevator down to the lobby. Once there, he’d walk down to the basement, strip to his boxers and write.

Favorite of mine, D.H. Lawrence, was known for climbing mulberry trees in the nude; something to do with the long limbs and rough bark stimulating his thoughts. Hemingway often wrote in the nude. In that state, he’d stand, with his typewriter on the table, waist-high before him.

Even when we step beyond mere writing habits, writers seem to set the bar quite high in regard to being the most unusual of people. James Joyce, author of Ulysses, enjoyed the smell of women’s farts, as well as being spanked. Irish poet and playwright, W.B. Yeats had monkey glands inserted into his scrotum; invigorating both his sex life and his creativity. Its true: writers are very peculiar people. Dare I say – quirky.

Although I do not sit with a desk drawer full of rotten apples, as German poet, Schiller did, I do consider myself a bit left of center. To change that would be to change my view of the world, the angle by which I perceive all things. To change my quirkiness would be to change – me, as it’s a nuance that sits at my core. It’s a systematic condition, but one that plays a large part in producing all of my varying colors. I don’t mind this. And why should I? To do so would be to take myself too seriously. Nothing sinks one’s ship faster than taking themselves too seriously. As I sail from point to point, as I write and move along with life, I do so with unabashed pride in the peculiarity that is me.

I do not see these things as faults. And when one does, it’s a marker of how they view themselves, in addition to how they view life: critically. Just as I marvel at the quirky, odd-shaped, two-headed tomato, I also stare in awe at the flower who’s petals aren’t colored like the rest. The best things in life are those that allow themselves to simply – be. Never curtailing to popular opinion. Never cowering under conformity. The smartest amongst us know: popular opinion changes like the wind. So let it change. And conform only when doing so suits you. As for me, I don’t want to conform. As there is no box, large enough to keep me.

Off I go now, to climb a mulberry tree.


Written to: Oh Love by Green Day

What The ….?


During a physical interlude once, a man who shall remain nameless, ran his tongue brutishly between my upper lip and gums. This was not a delicate movement. It was not a gentle glide. More like a horse rooting for a hidden sugar cube. The act of which quickly replaced any amorous ideas I had, with the thought: What the …?

Granted, everyone likes different things. And this surely was not the worst of the worst. However, I found it profoundly non-stimulating, to say the least. Heaven forbid he had stumbled upon a crumb or popcorn husk wedged up in there. As a quasi-germaphobe, I tend to be a rather squeaky clean gal. But even after the most forceful of swishing, certain foods are reluctant to de-wedge themselves. Furthermore, never once have I witnessed a love scene wherein the woman’s upper lip was pushed outward as if she were receiving a thorough dental cleaning, all the while a thick tongue slithered along her gum line.

Perhaps this crazy-tongued fella had a funky dental fetish. I don’t know. I never asked. But that’s one of those surprises one hates to discover well after having signed a marital contract. Which was when this particular discovery was made by me. Please know the deflating sexual discoveries kept trickling in, long after. I’m far from a critical lover. But I do cringe at the memories.

I can’t stress enough the importance of trying to unearth such discoveries early on, preferably very early on. But such was not my case. And like a lot of bedroom experiences gone awry, I did what everyone does – block it out and try never to think of it again. Until today, when I truly wanted and needed to laugh. Which I can do as these discoveries are no longer a part of my  life.

No one holds a crystal ball that displays their future. Some say, having such would take all the fun out of life. For the most part I agree. Bearing in mind that I’ve had a few surprises come my way that would’ve been a whole lot easier had I known they were heading in my direction. Regardless, little surprises, both good and bad, line the path we walk in life. There’s no way to discover now what sits beyond our sight, nestled somewhere down the road. The best we can do is explore what we want to explore in its entirety while we walk. Life is about living – not holding back. There will be plenty of time for containment once we’ve passed on, and discover such a thing no longer exists. So as we walk on, I say we do so sampling and discovering all that we can. Hopefully, we’ll stumble upon some good surprises along the way.


Written while laughing, and listening to: Mountain Sound by Of Monsters & Men.

Fully Expressed

It’s that time again, when the afternoon sun lingers in the sky lazily as if reflecting upon the busier days of summer. Its autumn. My favorite time of the year.

Like Spring, Autumn reminds us of the cyclical nature by which we all live. The very world around us forces us to bear witness to the miracle that is life and death. The vibrant birth of all things colorful and green, now entering its final days. The circle of life that is nature.

As the leaves shift in color, a bit of melancholy fills the air; due to the visual reminder that all things change. All things, good and bad, must come to an end. Only the hand of God would signal the shift from life to dormancy with such brilliancy and beauty.

Nature never intends for things not to change. Change is all nature knows. Change is all nature does. The very cycle that is life, hinges upon change. The smell of the air changes. As if from long days baking, the earth emits a tired, yet beautiful perfume. The wind blows as if to remind us that something breathes beyond our view; something colder, something harsher. And the sun, when making its appearance, does so with little restraint. Instead it reveals its heat and magnificence with unabashed confidence. Nature, while alive, never forgets to live.

Whatever this divine source is that made all things, did so knowing there’s more to life than utilitarian function. Life is an expression. There’s a woman I know, who’s gentle disposition and delicate face always struck me much like that of a perfect rose. Both inward and outward, she was lovely. A when young, I wished to be more like her.  Nature never wishes for anything beyond what it is. From the moment it emerges, it lives in full expression. Therefore, when a tree ends its cycle it does so knowing it has lived, and it has lived well. This gentle woman, whom I’ve mentioned, passed away last night. And as I sit here, with my days steadily unfurling beneath me, my heart hurts and my mind wonders. Her soul ended the life cycle, knowing it had done all it had intended. Did her mind know this as well? I will never know. Like the trees that turn color to remind us that all things change, and that all things must come to an end – I will look upon her passing as a reminder. We can’t control change. We can no sooner control nature’s cycle than we can control the positioning of the stars. But we can be in harmony with change. And while doing so, live a life that is unabashed and fully expressed.

In memory of the girl with porcelain skin, and Farrah Fawcett hair for whom I wanted so much to be like. Your gentle spirit, and easy smile, will be missed.


Written to, Symptoms by Atlas Genius

Not Always Pretty


Its much easier to watch a potter mold and spin a vase than to thrust our own hands into the clay. Just as its easier to observe life, rather than partake in, and of life. Doing so gets messy at times. I don’t like messy – most people don’t.

Unfortunately, life requires of us to get our hands dirty.  When it is required of me however, I do so with deliberate movements and clear intent. And when the clay begins to flop wildly as it spins on the table, my gentleness is forced to step aside. As its obvious the clay requires a stronger hand.

For as painfully compassionate as I am, I am not passive. As kind as I am towards others, their actions never go unobserved. When one’s actions take a maladjusted turn, I have to throw onto the table not only the clay, but my feelings as well. Once at that point, my back is no longer yielding.

When someone unleashes words of bitterness, often it has more to do with how they view themselves than the person toward whom their words are directed. Knowing this, I try to approach the situation with flexible allowance and love – to an extent. Love is a gift we give another, without thought of return. It’s not a commodity. Our compassion, when shown, should have little conditions. This being the manner in which I love those closest to me.

But there are moments when extending love for another, the love we have for ourselves, becomes compromised. That’s when things get exceptionally dirty. When that happens we have to make a choice. For me to love another, it begins by loving myself. This is not a selfish belief. Quite the contrary. It is the foundation from which I treat others. I would never treat another in a manner that would harm myself if done to me. How something would make me feel is the gauge by which I measure my own actions. And there is no excuse, no justifiable cause that would make it acceptable for me to mistreat another. And I sure as hell won’t accept it, if done to me. As the saying goes: Do unto others, as you would have them do to you. This keeps in check how I treat others, but is also keeps in check how I allow others to treat me.

So as much as it may seem easier to let the clay spin out of control. It’s best to stop the wheel; glide the taunt string under its surface; releasing it from the table, and start again.  Such is true with people. Such is true with life.


This post was written to: The Keepers by Santigold