Lila: spending my days

We had a cook-out yesterday, for the Fourth of July. Nothing big, major, just a collection of people, large quantities of food and uncooperative weather with rain and temps so low we all put on jeans and brought out sweaters. And it was fine, fun in some ways. But also difficult. Difficult in that bringing different people together who don’t one another kind of way. When it is just a few friends, three or four of us, or old friends, where there is nothing to plan for because the ease is already in place and everyone knows where the waters glasses are and the extra rolls of toilet paper - I do great with this, love this. But when it is more people than this, I just plain struggle. I struggle because I feel everyone’s energy, and it is so visceral for me, so in my body. I feel the anxiety of this woman over there, and that the topic of her kids has come up and the other guests are all wondering why her kids aren’t there and her custody agreement is really no one’s business, but I feel that moment of discomfort in her. I feel it and I breathe it. I feel the tension in another woman, who is either angry or anxious, and her words are short and defensive and its like the energy she is giving off has an actual color and taste to me.

I feel all of it, the subtle shifts, the unspoken words, and its like they give off vibrations I can feel against my skin. And sometimes it is hard for me to know how to allow myself to remain open enough to feel, but to not take what is not mine, swallow it to the point where I am now carrying around what was never intended for me. Sometimes my skin feels so thin, so porous. And when I say things like “I’m an introvert” I think this is often what I’m meaning. That being around groups of people, it can exhaust me because I am aware and I feel, and I have to be by myself again to ground, to detox, to have space to feel through what is there, and discern when it is mine or only something around me I had happened to soak into me. And then late last night, Elliott and I are sitting on the porch, and it is calm inside me again, and it is a relief to know that rest. And Fireworks have been exploding for the last two hours and the rain has stopped. And the air is so thick, with fog and smoke. And I feel the silence and spaciousness. And I need that, god how I need that.

I have kept my flowers alive, the ones potted and on the front porch. Normally by this point in the summer they have withered and died because I failed to water them regularly, getting caught up in other activities and then feeling sad that the flowers planted on mother’s day have seen their demise due to my neglect. And this year, in July, they are in full bloom, robust, thriving. And looking at them, enjoying them, I’m aware of how fully IN my life I am right now. Not as much looking ahead or forward, making plans and striving toward goals. Just in the days. It’s not that I don’t want to have vision. Because I do. But it’s that feeling that the destination I am unavoidably headed towards is death, one way or another. And it will happen, life will happen, whether or not I “plan” for it. So I kind of want to spend the days.

It makes me think of the Renaissance paintings of the ascension of Christ, depicting that point in the story, after the resurrection, when he leaves earth and returns to the heavens. And in the paintings, it is often just his feet that are shown. And where I’m at right now, is being wildly interested in the feet of god, the parts of this life that can be seen and touched and tended to. The flowers to be watered. The dinner to be cooked. The body that is asking for rest, for a nap, so weighted with all the work I have done. The glass of Sauvignon Blanc, crisp with a tart taste of grapefruit. The car that had a broken window unable to be rolled up and then storms came and drenched the interior and then Friday, going and getting the car deep cleaned. Shit did that feel good. The jello jigglers George and I made, blue and red and cut into the shape of stars. The ants, which have returned again with a vengeance, as they do every summer, invading my kitchen, and my rather humorous “war” with them. The organizing I have been doing; the storage room with bins of seasonal decorations and winter clothes and baseballs and tennis rackets and tools and my art supplies. My clothes closet, trying on every last piece of clothing I own, happy to weed through and remove what I no longer need or love, to let it go. And now my remaining clothes, each item loved, is on its own hanger or folded in a drawer and just opening the closet door and seeing that order, it is this overwhelming feeling of pleasure. This is my life, the one I feel so fully in. The lightbulbs to be replaced. The second cup of coffee and call to a friend. The release when Elliott digs into my neck with his hands to work out a persistent knot. The feel of silk nightgowns against my skin fresh out of a late night bath. The book of poetry sent to my friend who’s mother had died. The kiss that turns into something more and how I am simultaneously comforted and turned on by the feel of his weight against me.

Just living. Being in the day. Caring for and loving the feet of god.

And speaking of god, of dare I say it, Christ, Elliott and I made the decision to leave the church we attended off and on for the last few years. We were never regular in our attendance, never devout in the Episcopal Christian faith. But we did try. It was a way for him to attempt to salvage the god of his childhood, to come to that god but with a new lens. It was a way for me to attempt to find a home, some place to find god that was not the god of my childhood, taking communion and that sense that everyone was welcome at the table. And yet. . . and yet, it was not really mine. It never was, not as I wanted it to be. And then we were in church one morning and George was sitting with us, rather than being in the Sunday school. And there was something about that, about realizing that he would take what was said there and it would become the god of HIS childhood. And I can’t fully explain it, except I could not give him the god of the Christian church, no matter how liberal it is. Realizing that though Elliott and I may experience what we would call god in multiple ways: dance, a good beer, friendship, the ocean, the shifting of seasons and cycles of this earth, good stories, sex, this city, pretty much all of life. But that this was being called “life” and what was in church was being called “god”. And its not what I want to give to George, because it not actually my experience. So we made the choice to leave. And here we are now, without a "spiritual home", a set place of belonging. And to be honest, I feel sad. Not because I have lost something, but because it was never really mine, even as I tried to make it mine. And also feeling open, that in letting this go, some kind of space has been cleared and we are now just in it, the life, the living, the god that always been there, right there, in front of me and inside of me.

Crazy windy day

"How can I love them so much and at times want to pack up everything I own and leave?"

"I don’t want to break hearts, to stomp on people I love just because I am in one of those moods, he triggered me with words."

"does this happen? is this growing old? low balls? because i didn't fucking sign up for that shit."

Foxy, can I just say how magnificent you are? I'm saying it. You are magnificent. Each of you. It continue to blow me away, to be privy to such freaking fantastic writing, to the cross-sections of your lives. What Foxy described about waking up awake, how it changes the whole day, you see things more clearly for what they are, the magic... yes to this. I had those moments today of looking at my girls and feeling charged up, filled, in love, whooshing kind of feeling, those blue eyes and the crazy wild wind whipping off the lake. We drove up north a ways to a state park and nearly had the place to ourselves, just spent the whole afternoon skipping shale and running into and against the wind, laughing, making hammocks out of beach towels and finding frogs and having sun naps. On the way back we stopped of course for creemees and I just spent the whole day appreciating them, which is a good thing because getting out of the house was touch-and-go there, with Red's tension growing by the minute. I could tell he was on the verge of bailing out and was glad we managed to forge ahead and get out of town for the day. I couldn't face another Saturday morning of walking down to the Farmer's Market and shmoozing.

Ariel is quietly sitting at her desk. She is changing, that one. Wow. Seven in just three months. Humming to herself.

I am changing, too. How? Who the fuck knows. My usual nonsense of thinking about what I'm up to and what's next and is there some big pursuit on the horizon that I can't quite make out yet, coupled with just being here now and all that. Should I go for a low-residency Master's degree in transpersonal psychology? Should I get certified with Martha Beck as a coach? Could it be that I am just fine the way I am thank you very much and don't need to do a thing more at the moment?

We've been having more than usual sex lately. It is good, this sex. It is good to be wanted and to have orgasms while the college kids next door play their garage band in the basement and instead of being the dead-end street mom with kids asleep telling them to pull the plug for the night, I think about walking over to join them, see if they need a lead singer. Who am I? God knows, I'd rather be the lead singer, rather be Kim Gordon than Joan Cleaver. BRING. IT. ON.

Red and I are talking about making a "road map" for ourselves. We're almost always talking about the things we want to do - the someday things, like go live abroad - maybe in Israel - for six months, or learn how to sail, or the VW camper van of course, and rent a little cabin every summer somewhere and explore... I/we can get into this small mind trap that it's all predicated on "having money." It feels like a brick wall we don't have to walk into and break our bones time and again. I don't know if that made any sense but I'm writing on the fly and not going back to make sure. I'm sure you won't mind, right?

Ariel wants to show me her "whooooooole" scrapbook and just came running in and saw that I am drinking a Diet Coke and said, "Mama! Why are you drinking that? You shouldn't even be drinking that!" and I had that visceral kind of "Ack go away let me please please please finish writing can I have just three minutes alone I'll be right there I know I know" moment.

Inhale, exhale. Coming back around again. For the zillionth time today.

Thanks for caring. Picture big fireworks of love in the skies above you, coming from my general direction.

foxy breaking shit again.

You know when you have so much rage you want to split open a face? I felt that way last week. And instead of hurting a person, I hurt a phone. Two of them.

I was so mad I broke not only my phone, but his. Cracked. In half. Yeah. Super Fucked Up.

I am beginning to wonder about myself. How I hold things in. How allow myself to remain be so open and inhale the toxins not only from my aura-sphere, but from the worlds. I get to a point where I suck it in, suck it in, suck it in and then I’ve hit the pollution level, I am worn down to the bone, torn like a paper, in half, the breeze carries me off. I loose myself, the person I think I am, at least. And I just break, or perhaps a better way to say it is that I break things.

Not a lot of things and not all the time but when the shit gets this heavy and I feel this strong and mighty while I watch my world change so fast, I snapity-snap. Let’s see. This time it was 90% due to exhaustion. Insomnia. Sleepless night after sleepless night. A road trip down south to visit a friend and her lover, both of whom I adore, both of whom are all day long pot smokers, childless and live in less than 800 square feet. My girls where loud, noisy, crazy, sleepless along with me, and I was doing everything I could to keep them contained in a unchild-proof home (not like they were going to get hurt, but they were going to hurt something in the house). I came home from the trip whipped.

And then the next morning, delightful, loving, sexy and passive aggressive mother-fucking rocker lays in bed with me and says : I went to get some cash out of your wallet. There’s only 50 bucks in there.

Yeah.

Where’s the rest?

What do you mean?

Where’s the rest?

Up your fucking ass.

Woa. Easy now. I just wonder how you could spend $300 in three days just staying with J.

Excuse me? Are you accusing me of spending frivolously? Are you? (finger waving in his face, of course) I bought food, gas, wine and beer for my hosts, and a whole lot of lattes to keep my exhausted body awake while I drove OUR children. Fuck you. You know? Fuck you! Dick Fuck. I didn’t spend a dime last week just so I could not think about spending money on this trip.

And let’s just say that kind of stuff kept happening and it escalated to a point where I took the phones and broke them but not before I took every last piece of clothing of his in the closet and threw them all over the room. Oh please. I don’t know how or why or what is wrong with me. It’s totally not logical to do this kind of thing. But at least I see it, right? At least I know that my actions were not about him or money, but about me, about what lives inside me, what longs to be seen and heard that I can‘t seem to release in a non-violent manner. I am aware I am still, after all these years, choosing to make others feel badly when I feel badly. I recognize it. I try not to put the attention there, on the fact that I am partially insane, but I like to linger on the part of me that knows I am (insane), the part that feels removed for Her, Her Wild Craziness, the part of me that feels better than, holier than even. I don’t want a broken phone. I don’t want to break hearts, to stomp on people I love just because I am in one of those moods, he triggered me with words.



* * *

My health is coming back after this long post partum road of regression and stress. A mash up of sunshine, herbs, sex, mantra and some good smelling homemade face oil, I feel awesome. I wake up not tired. I forgot what waking up awake felt like and let me say that it positively enhances the reality of another day. I see my girls as the magic they are, sucking in my belly with awe, chills up my arms, heart split in two: magic. White magic. Black magic. Purple magic. Lime green magic. Unicorn magic. I ask myself all day long, who are these three sages and how did they pick me? Since school has been out, they are back to normal, back to themselves. Our exchanges feel real again. I like this. The big one, little moon, snores next to me on the left. The little one, my little bird, snores on my right. The middle one, that little bear, sleeps in her own bed tonight. Moon is still so little, too, age six, lost a tooth, can skip and do an almost cartwheel. Yet I can put my whole had on her behind and cover it completely. So little. How can I love them so much and at times want to pack up everything I own and leave? How can I love them so much all the time and then in dark moments hate everything my life has become since they arrived?

i just started another moon cycle. i think this is way too early but i am welcoming it. the visions, the delusions, the hysteria, the sleep, the creative blood spilling all over the grass as i do a moon dance. i can't wait to spend the next few days alone, rocker not working and i can just be alone. to bleed and think. think and bleed. forgive myself for everything i did this past month that does not sit well and right in my gut. we are lucky ones, women, us, we are reborn all the time. i just really wish i had some drugs. good ones. vicadin, perkistat, valium...whatever the kids are popping these days. i'd like a few. along with a hot bath and a shot of makers mark.

oh how i love coming here. i love that i am totally anonymous. that nobody will ever know who i am, i will never be found out. this is a gift! a party! this place is a party for my words. and while i am not being found out can i just say a couple things? ok. good. my mother-in-law- can be and at times really is a bossy, rude, know it all bitch!!!!! and she had a mustache! and her son, my husband, though i adore him and every body part on him....well, his balls seems to be hanging lower. does this happen? is this growing old? low balls? because i didn't fucking sign up for that shit.

On that note I’ll sign off. I love you all. Sorry it has been so long since I have visited you here, my sirens. And as my Little Moon has been singing to me all week long…."it’s the call, it’s the call, of the sirens, the most enchanting creatures of the sea!

Foxy

Lila: letting out my wild woman

Last weekend storms came, violent and mystical, like omens or oracle. Friday, a week ago, the sky turned eerie gray and weighted and the air blew crazy. And then rain pounded and lashed, and then hail clattered and pinged, and watching the trees whip and whirl was a terrifying beauty. The sky was the color of late night, dark and damp, and it was one in the afternoon. And it sent so many branches and even whole trees splintering and cracking and clashing to the ground. Light posts crashed over and sparks flew. Power went out. Car alarms wailed. It was spine-chilling and breathtaking.

The storm left pools of water everywhere, in the streets and basements, and our car which had the window left down. And now they fill the air with so much moisture you can feel its weight when walking, smelling of rot and dark magic and mosquitoes thrive and feed off us, skin covered in red welts. Two nights ago, I was kept awake by the wails and screeching scream of a cat in heat. It is a violent sound of desire, a splitting open sound, a bloody sound. Like a scream. Like ecstasy. Like need. Like terror. Like all of it coming together. And I imagined her coming into my home and walking over my bed, her paws covered in blood, leaving footprints of her knowing on my sheets.

It is this dark side of summer's sun that has always lured me to her. Yes, I love the ease of summer months, the lazy mood and carefree sounds of kids playing, and the splashing in the pool and the slurp of snow cones. But it its this dark fecundity that lures me every time. This sweltering and primal kind of humid heat. It is thick like jungle. And rotting wetness like swamp. And insects multiply and swoop inside the moment the window is lifted, the door cracked open. And fruit left sitting out on the kitchen counter turns into soft ripeness and smells sticky sweet. And I sit here, listening to this song. I sit here, feeling sweat pool on the inside of elbows and knees. I sit here, feel my primal side take over, my own instinct nature thrive.

Since submitting my last packet for school (woo-hoo) it feels like everything that was planted there, came to grow there, but was held inside in some way so as to keep up with deadlines and keeping my shit together, now it spills out. There have been a lot of tears. The best kind, with no words or meaning, no I'm crying because I'm angry or crying because I'm sad, but just crying because my body wants to cry, to release, and tears can do that for me. And then I fall asleep. I have slept so much this past week, hard deep sleep. Sleeping eight to ten hours a night and when I wake I cannot quickly remove the veil between sleeping and waking worlds. My dreams are violent and lush, scary and filled with so many colors and I cannot shake their vivid aliveness. My dreams come like cobwebs and when I wake they cling to the inside of my eyelids. When I wake my body feels so heavy, unable to disentangle from the mattress, my limbs buried inside its weight. When I wake my eyes are puffy, swollen, the remnants of hard sleep, deep sleep, entering into other worlds sleep.

I've been filled with this intense feeling of being present, here. Like I spend so much time knocking on the door to life, waiting for it to open. And then that moment comes and I see myself, standing there on the inside, and my hands have always been the one holding the keys. Summer does this to me, this coming back home to myself and just being here, in my life, living. The taste of bitter chocolate and the feel of sticky tree sap on the hands. The smell of cinnamon and the sounds of sex. The creativity pulsing in earth's veins and her night terrors of neglect, the community gardens and abandoned housing projects, the hard won celebrations and the sting of surprise, the web of all these people, each of us here, living, hoping to connect. The feeling of grief so strong I think I will die, I swear I will die, and somehow, feeling it all, it brings me again, always again, to the living. Writing words for me alone, the feel of silky lingerie against my skin, the juice from the pineapple that spills onto the counter, taking a walk with a friend, seeing George streak naked through the apartment after taking a bath and how he inhabits his body and being without inhibitions, the moments when I remember to forget who I think Elliott is and see him there again as complete wonder and mystery, the heart thud when expectations go unmet, the ecstasy of knowing what it is to love and be loved.

The papers done, the body rested, the tears cried, the storm sweeping through and now passed, my wildness emerges. She comes out with a sloppy smile and eyes swollen with sleep dreams. She screams out like the cat in heat, licking Elliott's shoulder and biting his arm. She slinks out with the dancing at home, alone in my apartment. She crawls out with fire in her eyes and mischief in her mouth. She spills out with pleasure and knowing: the sensitivity of skin being touched awake, the heart all pulpy and raw with being opened, the aggression of animal instinct, the fierce tenderness of being in the space where roots descend down deep and all these green things grow.

THIS is, Noa, ...

...your life! You've got it! The good, the bad...the ugly...the sexual, the fear, the trepidation, the satisfaction....the love, the connection....THIS is all your life.

Some brilliant woman said to me once: who told you it would get better than this? (These were the words relative to my situation.) And over the years as I replay that moment I continue to get: who said there would be more up than down days? who said "we" deserve "better"...by the way - who defines better?....who said bad things don't happen to good people? Who ... WHO said all that? WE did. We made the prediction that life would be "more".

And, honey, I get you...I get it..I really do. There must be more to this and I think we both know that in the states of bliss that come along it's quite obvious that there is more...and you know what? You are one of the gifted few that have already touched the Divine...have already slipped your tongue into the vase (pronounced: vahz) of Bliss...not many do; they just don't. But because you have it's hard to exist, sometimes, as "just" a worldly being.

We all get it, we Sirens, Ms Noa...and we are here to be on the other side cheering you on...and you know what?...sometimes you are on the other side cheering us on...because it's a never ending journey - this place to bliss and back....and then as the book says: there's the laundry!

You are a Seeker, my friend....love the seeking...it's fucking hard work and your people should be blessing their existences that they get to partake in your manifesting what this life holds for all of you! Rock it out on your time..I assume you're already returning at this point. I hope it was exactly what it needed to be...knowing sometimes that what we need doesn't look at all like what we want...and you know that already, you brilliant, lovely, curly, running, chugging, mothering, loving, sexing, hot WOMAN!

YOuRs...
Zita

Flying the friendly skies...

I'm sitting in the Boston airport. Got here three hours ago, after hitching a ride from Vermont. The week was madness. The last time I traveled alone was September, flying to Seattle to meet you all. This time, I'm with my oldest sister. Tomorrow I go to an all-day retreat and then we're driving to Ocean Beach for three nights. She's paying for the flights with miles, the rental car, the condo.

I am so tired. Like really, extremely, self-indulgently tired. Like crash-and-burn-in-the-afternoon tired. Dragging ass, barely able to keep going tired. I was a crazy lady this week, a madwoman, a goddess with twelve arms and three heads thinking of every possible thing I could do to ease and smooth the transition of my leaving for a week, the longest I'll have been away from Wren.

I wonder about this cycle, the hyper-ultra-organized-productive-think-of-everything part, countered by the fatigue, the depletion, the deficit I think I must always be running on. Or running away from? I had my period all week, and actually I welcome the reason it offers me to declare separation. Red doesn't ask, I don't offer, and there are these few days where we don't do the little dance of are-we-going-to-have-sex tonight. The best part of this was last night, I was so at choice about it, so wanting him, declaring my readiness, not the least be resistant or despondent, no rallying required. I was just ready, no holds barred. At 8pm I told him you're coming upstairs with me, the girls are camped out with snacks and chocolate chips in front of a movie, they will be happy and honestly I don't think this is going to last all that long. So we went up and by the time he got in the room I was naked, joking that he is such a good sport. It was so fast and so electric and good, I thought why can't it, why isn't it always like this? But more than that, I loved feeling him get all sweaty and the freedom I felt and the abandon of claiming our time, not waiting diligently till later when I am too damn tired.

So as for all that exhaustion I stated earlier, feeling so attached to it, dramatic about it... that disappeared last night for about 15 minutes.

Makes me wonder what else would make it disappear. What else could I do more or less of to be more energetic??? I'm curious about the ayurveda stuff I know Foxy and who else among you knows about.

Reading your posts lately, I have this sneaking suspicion there's more roiling and rolling beneath the surface than I have been able to name lately. I am racing along. I still worry too much, in general, worry about being and doing enough, what would it look like to let down more, who would I be and on the other hand, it all comes down to so much self-judgment that I just want to let my face go slack, to cry, to be still, to be enough exactly as I am in this moment.

I am in the airport! With my sister! And my bag with two books to read! Where are my babies! It is hard to leave, and then there is that part of me that knows that after tomorrow, I may want to change it all up, throw all these beautiful tiles and stones and gems and jewels above my head, let them land, invite everyone around me to gather them up, claim one or many. I look around at this scene, with me in it, the laptops and cell phones and blackberries and plastic cups and loudspeakers, and have this thought that everyone here will die. I don't mean it in a morbid sense or a dire sense, but more with awareness that this is it, this fleeting life. It makes me love my girls and Red so much.

It is only when I begin thinking that I worry. Anxiety kicks in. There must be something I am missing, something I should be doing, thinking, creating, imagining, being. But what if there isn't? What if this is it, this is my actual, real life, my actual self here, missing nothing? Do I belong? What is this life?

If it is now, then I have nothing to fear. Nothing at all. Ariel & Wren are home with their Dada. I am taking care of myself by going away. The bills, somehow, by hook and by crook, are paid for this month. Who knows about next, or the ones after that and the ones after that - that is a rabbit hole, and I do not want to go there. The only thing there for me is hyperventilation, and I hyperventilated my way through my week, and I have to keep insisting for myself on another way.

Can you help me?

I love you. When do we gather round?

Lila: restless and ready

Monday I turn in my last writing for the semester. I am ready. So, so ready. Because I have loved this work. I do love this work. But I need some time off, away. To tend to the restlessness inside me, this volcano inside me heat building as I have locked myself in my office, worked late into the night, given everything I have. It starts to turn in on me, and I need air, space to stretch out, because there is so much there, waiting to be released. So Foxy, I hear you, I feel you.

I am exhausted, but I also feel like there is something in me that wants out, wants voice, expression, to not just be held but lived. And wants to spill out, rush out, breathe out, bleed out, and then come back in, transformed, embodied. It is that flash of a second when I feel a rush, a quickening of pulse, a movement, like I just heard something, some truth, and it was calling out to me, speaking right to me, and so my soul sheltered inside my body wants to connect with it, to be with it. And I don’t even know what to do with it most of the time. Because sometimes it feels like there are so many lifetimes coming towards me and pounding inside me, and I don’t think I will ever get to live them all, at least this go around. That tightness in my chest that reminds me there are choices, and some of them I have already made, and so they closed other doors. And yet, when does this become my self inflicted confinement and easy answer, shielding me from everything unlived inside of me that is wanting attention.

I want to move Hawaii or Mexico, to live by the ocean and let my hair turn to dreads and cover my body in permanent ink and do magic in my kitchen, where others somehow come and find me and we dance and I make them drinks and together we find their own heartbeat that has always been telling them who they are and what they must do.

I want to go walk the halls of hospitals, find those people lost and wandering. The ones who have just heard bad news, their family member still in surgery, and they don’t know what to do and the medical jargon is overwhelming and they can’t even find the fucking bathroom. The ones who are there for tests and they don’t speak the language and so they can’t even find the right floor, the wing of the hospital they have been sent to, and no one will help them understand the insurance paper work. The ones who lie in hospital beds and are sick or dying or healing, and sometimes all at once, and yet they don’t have a formal religion, meaning there is no priest to come and pray with them, offer them communion, and yet they possess a spirit that longs to be seen and I want to be there, seeing it, them, going into the unknown unmade space of god.

I want to can my own tomatoes and swim naked in waterfalls and know the sound of my voice as my own. I want to live in a tree house, a luxurious one of course, with an espresso machine and real beds complete with an crisp cotton sheets and mosquito netting and light weight cashmere blankets. I want to come home and find my apartment filled with orchids. I want to dive into the interior wilderness of my own psyche and the jungle of my human heart. I even of late had wanted to give birth to another baby. Which is not mine to do, but still, I want. I want to know that this life is mine, and no one else will come and live it for me. So what then? What will I do?

I want to be a dancer. Or a painter. Or a movie screenwriter. Or a cellist. Or a tattoo artist. Or a mountain climber. I want to have that thing that I do, that I give myself to. That I am willing to sacrifice for and bleed for, commit to and feed. And, its not about prestige. It’s about knowing that their was a calling inside me and I listened to it and followed where it lead me. But what if I hear so many things call out my name? I want integration, to not feel like I have to be any one thing. And I want the fierceness of passion that is willing to follow one thing. And I do not know how to have both. So it is this then that I want. To know, as Emily Bronte, “I’ll walk where my own nature would be leading.” Wherever that leads.

And right now, as summer feels to finally have come and it humid hot outside, even at night as I write this. Right now, as I am close to finishing another semester, knowing that there is only more left and then maybe more school, maybe a rest, maybe something I cannot yet even imagine. But that I’ll walk where my own nature would be leading. Walk into the world, this life, as to a waiting lover.

Zita, yes, I’m with you, ready, waiting, needing to all come together again.

I love you all.