Frolicking in Linguistic Fields Forever

Two year old sleeping

Do not wait for perfection

Fingers speak my heart

 

Grin!  That was my “piercing the thick skin of the moment” haiku!  It’s four thirty six am and Lord on High knows how many grains of delicious stillness remain in this hourglass of ISness.  So here I go.

 

Yesterday afternoon I felt like mySelf for the first time in too long to name.  I felt surprised when the sacred remembrance rushed in.  Like I didn’t even realize I had been missing… I just felt this aching quality of disturbed void.  Then suddenly, awash in apocalyptic winter sunshine, came an old familiar electric joy.  The natural radiance of my Essential Self.  

 

Reminds me of how Peter Pan’s shadow ran away from him and he tried to stick it back on to his feet with soap.  Same with my sassy-assed essence.  Evading me… running off and frolicking through the carefree, sunlit fields of Creation without me!  Bitch!  I need you!  Don’t ever leave me again.

 

Yeah, I’ve been feeling exhausted for… Weeks?  Months?  When you’re wandering the scorching deserts of Existence, time is pretty damn elusive.  But long enough to bring me to my knees.  And make me forget the Sweetness with a capital S.

 

No, that’s not completely true.  Serena has been my inseverable lifeline to Sweetness.  She is a gaily gurgling, rapturous font of Sweetness.  And I’m not dumb enough to cut off from her mainline of Heavenly Glory.  But “weird scenes inside the gold mine,” as Jim Morrison once cried out amidst peels of song.  

 

Ladies and Gentle Men, now I shall pull a classic “Athena Grace” and do an unapologetic one-eighty, because I don’t feel like talking about that anymore, and graceful transitions are way overrated.  “I am an artist,” Athena Grace spoke with weighty seriousness,  laced with subtly dramatic flair.   And without pause,  she  emphatically cast fistfuls of iridescent glitter into the wide infinity about her.

 

I want to tell you that the wildest thing happened with Ed (my beloved baby daddy).  A couple weeks ago, he full-court-pressed me to fully release my Italian lover and be ALL IN with him.  All I could do was play possum… because on the inside it felt A) ridiculous and B) impossible.  

 

So with a self-satisfied inner smirk at my crafty tactic, I replied that I would fully release said Italian Dream Boat and be ALL IN… if HE was.  I held up the brutal mirror with cocky certainty that he would back down and back off.   

 

Instead I got, “Athena?…. FUCK YES.”

 

I was stunned and speechless for a good twenty four hours.  

 

And then came a wash of ecstasy.  Hmmm…. A couple of paragraphs ago, I stated that I haven’t felt like mySelf in eons.  Now, here I am professing ecstasy.  I guess there is plenty of room for paradox and multidimensional wilderness in the sentient spark of radiance that I AM,  for ALL OF IT to exist simultaneously.

 

The heart of the matter is that so many parts of me are starving in this cycle of Life:  Real time connection with friends.  Leisurely creative expression.  Moving my body through crystaline waters.  Juicy, unrushed, soul-full erotic sharing.   

 

Sigh… I guess that’s the exquisite, blindingly silver-lined curse of a mother of a small child.  And let’s not forget to mention the fresh and bleeding hole in my heart and Life left by the recent departure of my dear and precious MOM.  


But HARK!!!  A new cycle doth dawneth!!!!  

 

I am so jazzed (God that word really thrills the knickers off me, time and again…) in anticipation of having a nice, shiny, nuclear FAMILY.  I’m half laughing at that statement, because honestly, the notion of “nuclear family” sends intermittent tremors of terror through me.  It seems mildly remedial and barbaric to shackle one’s self to two other people and exist within the solitary and *expensive* confines of a few boring colored, angular boxes, otherwise known as “houses”.  

 

But at the same time, it is appealing to the part of me who grew up without my father present… to make a bold stand for Family…. And do it in a way that is nourishing and creative… and porous to a greater sense of family.  Community.  Tribe.  Like our little glamorous box is merely the nucleus of a much more expansive network of supportive, nutritious relationships.  Revolutionarily transforming the stiff, patriarchal box from the INside.  

 

So as soon as we find our own fabulous box to live and love in, Serena and I will move back to the paved and chaotic Bay Area.  Hopefully we will live walking distance to an outdoor swimming pool!  Preferably salt water.  And parks.  Yoga studios.  Dance classes.  FRIENDS!  Libraries.  Gardens teeming with happy, rainbow colored flowers and generously splayed trees.  Hopefully our transition with be smooth and our life will be JOY-full and expansive.  

 

With glitter-strewn LOVE from Athena Graceland,

Athena Grace LMNOP

 

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Wrastling Gators in Dripping Dungeons

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I’m scared to touch my fingers to keys this morning, because it has been so long, and I don’t feel like a writer anymore.  Plus, I have been navigating some rugged inner wilderness these days, and I don’t want to spew negativity upon the page.  My friends who Know, oft remind me that words are powerful; words are spells.  I grapple with this… because on one hand, I only want to cast the most palatable spells… and yet, I also have a deep-seated thirst to expose the full spectral complexity of my human experience… rather than carving it up into lovely, horrifyingly perfect topiaries that barely hint at the raw essence of what it really feels like to be me.

Upon the completion of a deep breath, I remembered the years upon years that I’ve given myself to this process of writing out the tangles of my unwieldy Existence… because my life depended on it.  And magically, the process of getting my life, mind and emotions out into single file order heals me.  Heals as in “makes whole”.  Not that I’m ever anything besides whole…. but it feels like it, as the jagged shards of my disparate selves and contradictory motivations whiz around in here.  When they line up in well-behaved rows and march out upon the page, the jaggedness turns smooth and round and almost glamourous.

The oh-so-creamy, featured flavors recently have been “Luscious Loneliness” and “Irresistible Isolation”.  (I was imagining artisan ice cream… just to spell it out for those of you who are not so quick… I didn’t want my cleverness to slip between those those cruel ravines that slice between our minds.)  For a while, I was happily distracted by doing some copy writing (hit me up if you need words to sing your mission and gifts into existence in a professional domain!), which occupied many of the fleeting and sparse moments of my spare time.  When those jobs completed, I poured everything into my new website (!!!) for my “Sourced Circles”– rad online women’s video circles that I have been facilitating for years now, and fine tuning into a gorgeous six week experience of intimacy, community and empowerment for women who hunger to burst free from status quo and embody our wild, wise, liberated, embodied, powerful selves.  I’m passionate about it.

I think the plummet into darkness officially occurred when my beloved Web Master (Ed) published the website… and I imagined women would rush forth in DROVES to sign up for this fabulous six week ride on the alchemical love train.

Nope.  Not a peep.  After all the love and care, passion and creative juice I’ve poured into my new baby.  Somehow the Yoniverse is like, “Uh-uh”.  I dunno what that’s about.  I’m pretty damn certain that these circles are my dharma.  It’s clear that my God(dess)-Given-Gifts are meant to heal and uplift the lives and hearts of women, and hence the Planet.  But…. as of this illusorily linear mOMent in the seemingly stiff squiggle of my Life, there is a hiccup in the full-throttle flow of my said dharma.

Is it because I have more work to do on the INside?  Fuck, Universe, if I wait till I’m perfect to share my heart and voice and passion with the world, I will surely be DEAD.  Fuck that.  Is it that I need to market harder?  I am personally repulsed by the current marketing model… of appealing to the pain and suffering of others.  This capitalism in New-Age clothing.  “Healers” who stand up in their expensive goddess clothing and opulent jewels and look all “together” and be like “I used to be fucked up like you… but then I found this thing, and if you give me tons of money, I will give it to you, and then you’ll feel better about yourself.”

I feel embarrassed saying that, because I imagine that all the business savvy peeps who read this are gonna say, “See Athena?!  And you wonder why your business is failing!!!  Put on your most expensive and flowy clothing and shiny jewels and PLAY THE GAME, Bitch!”  And the truth is, part of me wants to.  At least the part about wearing delicious clothing and lovely jewels…

But God…. can’t we play a new game where NOBODY IS BROKEN?  And we don’t need to be motivated by suffering?  Just pure Desire and Passion and Playfulness?  I mean really… are we that remedial as a species?

Sigh… I guess pain and suffering still motivate me.  I’m a visionary with a fierce drive to transform broken systems… and yet there is still unresolved cellular debris and ancestral junk in my body that is working itself out… and there remains an impending resolution in my own being.

And NOW for an entire paragraph dedicated to cool shit!  The “old me” would have given up at the first sign of challenge.  I would have uttered weak and muffled cries of defeat, “Fuck it.  I quit.”  I woulda crumpled my half-painted masterpiece and hurled it in the trash.  I’ve testified to this before, but I must sing it again!  When I gave birth, I gave birth to MYSELF.  It changed me.  I have become someone who doesn’t quit, and knows the Divine Power within me.  So I forge onward, prepared to learn and grow as I go.  I don’t have to be perfect or “get it right”…. I just have to keep calling on Source within me and giving the best I know how in each blessed mOMent.  I think I there was some other cool shit that I wanted to exclaim in this designated paragraph, too… But it slipped my mind when I got up to pee…. maybe it was just a celebration of the extreme pleasure and relief I am feeling as my fingers make love to these singing keys.  At once, I am whole.  I am hOMe.

I have been putting all my creative energy into my “important-assed business”.  But this blog, Athena Graceland, is the exalted queendom of my inner child.  And she does NOT give a fluttering fuck about being “Important”.  She just wants to PLAY.  I have been wandering the desert.  Eat your heart out Mister Christ, cuz I’ve been trudging along WAAAY more than forty days and forty nights.  It’s been over TWO YEARS.  It’s insanely isolating to be a single mom of a baby/toddler.  I’ve heard that even moms with devoted partners feel isolated… but fuck that.  At least they can get out once in a while and go to a yoga class, or a women’s circle or….  I feel tethered to my frigid dungeon.  Shhhhhh….. listen…. can you hear the slowww drip, drip, drip, as rhythmic water sings down upon the slimy, dampened stones?

This avalanche of words, and I didn’t even touch on my Man Troubles.  Partially because I don’t want to create extra conflict, and partially because as my Priestess ally QuynhMa says, it’s a “red herring”… and there is a deeper issue.  My work right now, is to dig to the ROOT of the issues I am encountering.  With men, when I seek the root, it’s a feeling of starvation, desperation… A reaction to the loneliness and isolation I am feeling my way through.  I want to blame Ed, push him away, punish him… and then grasp for him when he is about to slip away… and get high on the rush of relief when we return to connection.  Meanwhile, I want to grasp for Giordano… because he represents some false sense of freedom.  I want RELIEF from the pain inside.  But the deeper me knows it is not to be found in a man.  I am working within to transmute and transcend the need to grasp onto a man for security, safety and survival.  I am (gruelingly slowly) learning to resolve these feelings and urges within myself, to create my own wealth, abundance and nourishing community, so that Partnership is born of freedom, choice and empowerment.  But I’ll tell ya, this initiation into my Priestess Power often feels like being tossed into a muddy pit full of gators and wrastling myself into exhausted submission and elusive victory.

Lately I’ve been wondering why in the fuck I chose such a grueling Path…….

But I know deep down it’s because I’m a total Badass and it’s making me INVINCIBLE.  And everything I find in here will ultimately be YOURS.  Because my Life is for Humanity.

And she loved happily ever after.

Slaying Dragons with Toothpicks

Remember back in the late eighties when baby Jessica fell down the well… and a massive search and rescue party spent days or maybe even weeks trying to get her out?  (Yes, I came from one of those mainstream households where the sun rose and set by the light of the television profusely spewing news, and we were all (pathetically) “abreast” of what THEY prescribed we should be…. Talk about a past life within a life.)  Anyway, I was just jogging through the woods (for the third time in the two years Serena has been with me), and I realized that I too, have lost my Best Friend down a cruel, dark well.  Except nobody sent a search and rescue party for my darling, linguistically portrayed dimension of Athena Grace.  Frown.

October first was the date I posted my last blog entry in here Athena Graceland.  Today is December first.  For all you math retards out there, that’s TWO WHOPPING MONTHS.  Ask me if that’s “OK”… Ummm, nope.  It’s really not.  In a way, this free-wheeling, journal-esque blog seems frivolous.  But peel back the cheap plastic wrap of seeming, and you’ll see that I am here making love to myself.  I am here realizing my Existence.  Befriending myself in a way that is healing and even essential.

This morning, Serena is with her beloved, stand-in-grandma-friend for two massive/fleeting hours…. and it’s a rare and hella sacred interlude, where I do not have to be a survival driven hussla, shackled to making a dirty buck.  Two holy hours.  And a gentle, humming desperation as I deliberated on how to spend them.  But I’ll tell you ONE thing– there’s nothing like being the single mom of a two year old to spur a bitch to master time management!  So I opted to jog through the cool, marmalade sunlit forest, and then, yerba mate in hand, slowly explode on this ecstatically empty page.  Although now, it is ecstatically filling with gorgeous fluidity and understated pleasure.

Actually, this is the happiest mOMent of my life.  And just for the record, I WAS gonna write my “article”… for Rebel Priestess Magazine…. about alternative parenting.  It will be about my journey as a single mama.  Entitled, “From Victim to Victory”… I will brazenly share about how goddamn seductive it is to feign victimhood as a single mom… It’s like this dumb card that I get to ostentatiously wave around at the world… so that the masses will take pity on me for all that I have to do by my poor, withered and wasted self.  A masturbatory stigma…. that somehow makes me feel…. like somebody, I guess.

But then…. all I have to do is flip a switch in my mind…. turn on a little “mood lighting” inside my psychedelically persuaded perceptions…. And suddenly my identity flips on her brilliant head.  Like the hottest magic, I am empowered, abundant, triumphant, resourced.  The truth is, without Serena, I would be aimlessly wandering the slums of Graceland.  And with a man up in the mix, I would be dependent and disempowered, perpetually choking myself on the short, cruel leash, as I devoured rotten scraps from his fat, sweaty palm. (C’mon, just let me indulge in superlative drama!!!  This is MY DAY.)   The journey into single motherhood has demanded that I dig fuckin DEEP and claim my power in a way I never would have, had I had a partner holding my helpless little hand.  That’s not to say I don’t want a partner.  I do.  And I will have one.  Serena’s dad.  He’s *finally* separating from his wife.  For real.  We will be together in a year.  But I need(ed) this initiation before I was ready to board the Partner-Ship and cruise the cosmos, family style.  Because of this rigorous initiation, I will do it from true sovereignty.  Not from need.  Not from ancestrally informed autopilot.  I am nobody’s bitch, Bitches!!!!!

Whoa.  I didn’t know I was gonna write all that.  What I was intending to say, is that I was planning to invest my few, fleeting moments of Me Time writing said article.  For which I’d feel so damn important.  Like, “Look at me!  I’m sooo cool… I know what the hell I’m talking about and I write ARTICLES.”  The notion of being “Important” makes me salivate, honestly.  And it cracks me up at the same time.  But as I was jogging through the forest, breathing heavy and carving through forsaken layers of my own mostly delicious thoughts, I realized that blogging is how I befriend myself.  And at once, I knew that this was way more crucial than being “Important”.  At least for today…

Day after day, as I pour my whole self into raising Serena alone, I feel mostly crushed by the excruciating weight of my dreams.  Yes, people, FINALLY, at the age of thirty seven and eleven months, my Dharma, my Destiny, my Dreams are coming into crisp, lucid focus!  But the irony, is that I could contain the amount of spare time I have in a crystal thimble!  Every day, I aim to move forward and get my women’s circles way the fuck OUT into the world– clarify my Vision statement, work on my website, write relevant articles and blog posts….  But mostly I FAIL!!!!!!  Mostly my life revolves around an artistic weave of bacon scavenging and meeting Serena’s gorgeous needs, which I should NOT be whining about.  She is a fountain of joy-full, creative, awe-struck, unfiltered Existence!!!!  But sans adequate self-care (a concept I once upon a time took frivolous delight in snubbing and snarking at….),  I find myself all too often, a depleted pile of anxiety, anger and sprawling frustration.

I mean it would seem “logical” that maaaaybe if I can’t even do an uninterrupted half-a-blessed-hour of yoga, take a hot bath or WRITE A FRIGGIN BLOG, that it might be INSANE to believe that I can take over the world and generate a prolific culture of empowered, deliciously embodied women leaders who stand up together in authenticity, vulnerability, unleashed and spiritually aligned Desire…. and collectively call forth a fucking fabulous, harmonious, peaceful, turned-ON, co-creative world.   Yeah.   Mostly it feels like trying to slay a dragon with a toothpick.  Dumb, right?  WRONG.  Because I’m gonna slay the flame-breathing beast.  I am.  And then I’ll stand atop the mountain, gloriously penetrating the heavens with my blood-stained toothpick…. and rightfully feeling like a badass Master of the Yoniverse.

And then I’ll take a decadent bow, and keep right on dreaming and doing in the name of LOVE.

Romance dawns in Graceland!

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It’s four forty one am.  The refrigerator is singing a resounding rendition of the sacred syllable OM, and my nervous system feels like a potato chip.  (Not the thick, ridged, crinkle cut ones… the thin, irregular, bubbly ones that are translucent with grease.)  I am a refugee, mud-streaked, bleeding and disheveled, stealthily fighting my way back into the honey-dripping throes of Graceland.  I was stollen away and locked in a solitary tower, without my faithful laptop, or even a toilet paper roll, ink and a feather to write my Life into honest, lucid, artistic existence.

Actually, I fell in…. Love?  Lust?  Or have I risen into the aforementioned dynamic duo of L words?  I’d like to think I have risen.  But being so perpetually sleep deprived, unfortunately, it feels more like a fall to the gritty, indifferent ground.  Ohhhhh YES!!!… I am loving being dramatic right now.  But I felt a pang of sadness, talking about the ground that way…. because the ground is Mother Earth’s own sumptuous* body, and she is anything but indifferent.  Indifference is not in any healthy mother’s instinctual palate.

*I just looked up the word “sumptuous”, because I wasn’t certain of it’s precise meaning… and I was surprised to discover that it implies expensiveness!  “Expensive” is not how I would describe this marvelous place we are blessed to call hOMe for now… But I still like the word… Sumptuous.  The sound, the feeling of my mouth and breath forming the word– Feminine.  Round.  Sensual.  Mrs. Earth is definitely all that.

Are you still with me?  Or are you like, “Athena, stop masturbatorily pontificating, and TELL US who in God’s hella holy name you have risen/fallen into this wild and unruly state with!!!”

Yeah, you’re right.  Life is but a flash in the pan, and I really oughta roll up my sleeves and get to it!  But wait!!!  May I please share something frivolous with you first?!  When I wrote the word “oughta” just now, I had a flashback to my hella glamorous childhood… Back in the tragically dull, concrete-heavy, gridded neighborhood in San Leandro.  I must have been a budding pubescent, with a few dwindling, tenuous shreds of innocence still in tact.  My mom drove the fuck out of a silver Dodge Caravan minivan.  Stick shift.  (Actually, I learned to drive on this beast.  The clutch was a total bitch, and the car had a proclivity for lurching forward at the slightest mishandling…)  My Ma had a job delivering phone books!  All the fuck over the vast expanse of the East Bay.  I mean, seriously, sometimes she’d have to drive more than an hour, with said van weighted with phonebooks to get to her route du jour.  Rush Limbaugh was her abiding co-pilot.  Even though I didn’t share her smolderingly impassioned political views, I did find him mildly amusing… Actually, I am still impressed by his marked (though misplaced) intellectual capacity, which enabled him to throw his outrageously opinionated and substantial weight around in a compelling fashion.  Ahhh the good olde days!  Are you scratching your head right about now, and wondering how in the heck I fell into this tangential cul de sac of memory lane?  Well DUH!!  Because his book was entitled, “The Way Things OUGHTA Be”….. Grin.

Ok.  Get this– his name is Giordano, and he shot like an Italian comet, straight into my DRIVEWAY.  I oft wondered how I would ever find a lover while cloistered in the thick, wooded folds of a spiritual community who collectively strives toward sexual renunciation…. Improbable, right?  Well, I flew home from Costa Rica, and this beautiful man was… just here…. My landlord imported him from Italy to….”help him” .  When Ryan introduced me to his quiet Italian buddy, the man didn’t even make eye contact, so naturally, I inadvertently dismissed any possibility of… anything.

The next day, he was loitering in the driveway, as Serena and I were heading out on some mundane mission or another.  Giordano just watched us… the way a child watches.  With passive, unadulterated curiosity.  A couple days later, Ryan told me I should invite him to the River.  This caught me off guard.  “But he didn’t even make eye contact,” I replied.  “Is he capable of connecting?  Is he just shy??”  Ryan assured me he was “just shy”.  Hmmm….

Since it was the rapidly dwindling end of River Season, I didn’t have time to dick around.  I either invited him, or forever held my peace.  So the next morning, when I saw Giordano pacing the gravel driveway, I invited him.  He said yes.

God, why do I endeavor to write my life down on the page in thousand word installments???  It just doesn’t make sense…  I’d be better off writing enchanted, sprawling epic poems that unabashedly draped about Infinity.  But here I am again… aspiring to contain my existence in a meager thousand words.  I guess I dig the challenge.  Akin to how The Lord delights in smashing His archaic prayer onto a measly grain of rice.  Besides, I can always come back for round two.  And three and four and affinity….

Well, our first date was sweet.  His english was decent enough to sort of understand each other… and sparse enough for the experience to feel like the set-up of a cheesy romance novel!  I was struck by his sweet sensitivity.  And his innate proclivity to connect with Serena.  He seemed a little embarrassed when he stripped down to his black, cotton briefs, confessing that he didn’t have more appropriate swimwear.  We laid on a flat, smooth slab of granite and marinated in gentle, delicious, autumnally slanted morning sunlight.  I tried to speak slowly, and with simple, latin based words that might transcend the language barrier.

During the following week, I felt a soft, potent longing to see him… but we were both consumed by work and Life.  He did timidly hover around my front gate a few times… Each time I eagerly sucked him into my music and sunlight drenched lair.  It was comical… the way he loitered awkwardly as I cooked and tended to the masterfully flirtatious Serena.  Our mutual desire was obvious… yet neither of us sure what to do or say.  Is that like SO romance novel, or what?!  One time, as he was preparing to leave, I got super bold and asked, “Would you like a hug?”  I forgot to mention that he flies back to Italy on November 3rd… so we really don’t have time to dick around.  It’s a classic case of shit or get off the pot.  Anyway, naturally his answer was YES.  We moved into an embrace…. And…..

OhMyFuckingGod.  Talk about clothes-on-energy-sex….. Luminous, gushing rivers flowing between us, birthing entire new ecstatically persuaded galaxies.  Neither of us wanted to let go.  Just melt and bleed into differentiated unity and bliss.  Then he departed.

But he left trail of reverberating, energizing lust that fueled me for days.  Jesus. The next weekend, I invited him back to the River.  This time to a nude beach.  I was tickled that he opted to keep his underwear on, regardless!  Not Athena Grace.   Lordy, this story’s end is nowhere in sight… yet I must draw this entry to a close.  More to come.  Literally.  I’ll just say that we had a beauty-full time together that day amidst the sunlight, clear, rushing water, smooth stones and earthen, perfumed air.  Serena loved him from the get-go.  And he, Serena.  Which naturally gets me hot.  If this was not the case, I don’t even think I would bother.

What I am bursting to unpack next, beyond the linear sequence of our hella romantic unfolding… is the deeper cut.  Witnessing the cacophonous choir of selves within me… how they all seem to have disparate motivations and longings… and how I am navigating these deep and murky and compelling waters.  And what about Ed?  So much more to tell!!!

Talk to you soon.

Sacred Agitation by Moonlight

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For how many revolutions of our dream team of heavenly bodies can one speak to the first haunting whispers of autumn creeping in through my wide-splayed windows while I sleep at night…. or the ever-evocative, luminous, pale-gold ball, swan diving in slomo toward the silhouetted, pre-dawn horizon?  It’s all been said.  Still, it always begs saying.

Autumn’s arrival always draws melancholy to the surface of my heart.  Bidding farewell to my life-long besties, Heat and Light.  So scarce now, are remaining liberated nights of naked, sensuous, blanket-less slumber, or waking to perfectly warm mornings of outdoor, scantily clad yoga practice.  Time to pump up the volume on my anxiety as to how the fuck I will manifest two chords of firewood to heat my hOMe all winter.  Yes, I know anxiety is not the be-all, end-all… but it seems to be an inevitable facet of my wiring…. and I no longer have a mama to tell me to take a chill pill.  Well… maybe she’s calling out to me from the Astral Plane…. I shall pause and listen, because I need a copious dose of her laid-back Libran medicine right about now.  And Ma… since you have boldly proclaimed yourself my Guardian Angel at this stage of the Journey, PLEASE bring me two chords of firewood.  And a tall, quenching, golden challise of Holy Water, with which to swallow said “chill pill”.

I only wrote one lone blog while traveling in Costa Rica last month…. And rather than being a poetic celebration of Mother Nature’s verdant, tropical resplendence, or the gentle ecstasy of marinating in spanish… it was about my daughter’s constipation odyssey, and the devastating havoc it wreaked on my psycho-emotional wellbeing.  What can I say….?  It was a soul-stretching and rigorous month of losing control, coming undone and too much practice holding my own deeply sensitive inner child.  Laced with many beautiful and ordinary moments of this under-cover-divine business of Life-Living.  One of the greatest gifts was my swollen happiness to come home.  A fresh, passionate embrace this sprawling, blessed ordinariness.  Since I’ve been home,I feel like a drunk puppy, ecstatically writhing in a dusty heap of opulent, mundane quietude.

I just looked up the word “mundane”, wondering if it was actually a Cinderella’s glass slipper-fit to what I was aiming to communicate:

adjective

1.

common; ordinary; banal; unimaginative.

2.

of or relating to this world or earth as contrasted with heaven;worldly; earthly:

mundane affairs.

I love the word mundane… It always tickles me, because it possesses a trace of fib.  Here in Athena Graceland, even the most eyeball-gouging ordinariness is laced with Heavenly Sparkle.  It is inescapable.

Like last night, for example.  Some might even classify it a “peak experience”….. Seriously.  I’m takin’ it to the grave.  Well, except I don’t feel the need to be embalmed, boxed and buried…. But I digress.  Darkness was quietly engulfing all the secret, overlooked, in-between spaces, as I gave Serena her final hit of “booba” for the night.  Satiated, she pulled off and began to wander the small expanse of my double bed.  It was getting late, so I offered her the requisite ultimatum, “Booby or bed,” to which she replied “Big Bear,” as she crawled between my legs and snuggled up next to the big, white bear who stowed away with KenPie while he was shopping for rugs for us at IKEA, once upon a time.  At first, I was frustrated, because I was exhausted and wished she would cooperate, so that I could brush and floss and flop into bed myself….

But Serena was so…. serene…. laying between my legs, delightfully snuggled up with Big Bear.  And then, she took hold of my index finger with her tiny, tender hand!  And just held on to me…. looking so peaceful and content.  The windows were wide open, and the air flowing in was extra thick and heavenly.  It carried the scent of dirt, sweet pine, (and a hint of fresh, impending death) as it had just rained a little.  I fought the urge to destroy the perfection of the moment by putting her in bed, reminding myself that it would all end soon enough… My tiny daughter would be a grown woman with her own compelling, urgent and unknowable Life.  Instead, I breathed, allowing my body to slowly melt in relaxation. In this deepened state of presence, I became aware of the sensations in my heart.  I marveled at the intricacies therein!  Seriously people… if my heart were a bottle of red wine, it would’ve been wicked expensive.  I felt notes of pure content and whispering joy… mingling with deep, raw ache for the irreparable break with Serena’s father… laced with heavy notes of grief as my heart bled for the still fresh and jarring absence of my own Mama.  It all felt so right and natural and harmonious, swirling about in my lucid heart space.  Each note so crisp, clear, distinctive.  Seemingly disparate… and yet… simultaneous and whole.  Dusk’s poetic depth settling on Serena’s little, peaceful face.

I continued to sit in this psychedelic puddle of grace-strewn Existence until Serena was well asleep.  Even though I was spent, I felt profoundly wealthy and full.  Then I scooped her up and laid her with sublime care into her pack n play bed, at the foot of my own.  I had the best night’s sleep I have had in too long to mention.

And now, I am here in this freshly autumnal, audacious-moon-lit darkness… feeling torn apart, churning, burning.  On one hand, I am flush with this very compelling strain of content.  But also a hissing whisper of desperation to BECOME.  To make more of my life.  I feel this Immensity… fiercely longing to be fully alive, engaged, expressed through me.  I want my fabulous gift with words to lift the minds and hearts of the masses and generate wealth for me and my daughter.  I want to be a bold, courageous and inspiring leader, inviting wild and wise women to rise up together and return this world to sacred balance.  I want to inhabit the lavish reality of having more than enough money, and the freedom this provides, to make choices from desire, vision and inspiration.

Sitting.  Breathing.  Feeling.  This sacred agitation.  As Light quietly floods the world.  Again.

Poo-poo.

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By now I’m sure you know this… but I’m gonna tell you anyway.  In the beginning, there was the Word.  And the word was “poo-poo”.  If I had a golden Sacagawea dollar for every time I’ve coaxingly uttered those sacred syllables over the recent days….

I feel an urgency-gone-desperation to spew these words out before Serena wakes up, because lately I have had less than nothing for myself, due to her amplified demands on me, combined with the absence of community support.  My Cosmic Dad whisked us away to Costa Rica for the month of August… and everything is foreign and new and unpredictable.  Which basically means that she has taken up permanent residence on my boob.  Yes, I’m exaggerating.  Because I want to convey my feeeeeelings, which primarily consist of overwhelm, isolation, irritation, frustration and even some ferocious, white-hot rage… to name a few.

Actually, (and thank GOD),  those crucifying textures of my current inner-life have been broken up by sporadic expanses of peace, contentment, awe, fascination and other such palatable flavors.   I remember when I used to frequent Chucky Cheese’s as a kid… (In retrospect, what a creepy place!)  I remember this little crawl space under the stage where Mr. Cheese and his robotic band of freaky animals performed their “live show”… Inside was a button you could press, which would set off a strobe light.  I was rapt by the magic of this intense pulsation of light– the way it freeze-framed physical movements into rapid, flip-book successions.  This is how life has felt on our travel odyssey.  Extreme, pulsating vacillations between light and dark.

And now back to poo-poo.  Since we landed nine days ago, Serena has been a continuous, willful refusal to let it go.  With the help of gritty, watermelon flavored chewable kid’s laxatives, she pooped once, early on…. And then held on for six, anxiety-laden days.  Encouraging her bowels to move has become my neurotic raison d’être.  I gave her prunes, magnesium, probiotics… with no success… so I graduated to more saline laxative.  Getting her to eat them was the battle of the century.  Which I initially lost.  (She is cultivating a gorgeous will, at nearly twenty-one months earth side.)  But I made a triumphant KO in the second round, when I crushed them up and mixed them with watery orange juice.

God, sometimes I hate moving stories forward.  It can feel so restrictive.  Like, I have been living through copious amounts of miraculous, jagged experience that I long to share with you.  I wish I could write like one of those snakes that unhinges it’s jaw in order to swallow it’s massive prey.  I would unhinge my mind and my fingertips would explode with unobstructed, simultaneous worlds of imagery and feelings that at once harmonized and clashed in a highly compelling fashion, which transformed your consciousness in such a way that it trumped visions of a renowned Holy Virgin.

I’m not quite sure how to do that… so I’ll just keep plugging away at my story with as much honesty and creativity as I can muster.   But if my world WAS spilling simultaneously into your mind, you would see an impressive gaggle of young, hottie surfers (men and women) behind me, speaking myriad languages, waxing their boards with notable focus and a dash of passion.  It’s six fifteen am.  Oh, they just set out for the beach, which is a modest block down the gravel road from our “home” for a whopping ten days, “Casa Zen”.  I can hear Her mighty, crashing roar from my station on the patio downstairs.

Serena has never gone so long without pooping.  Oh, I guess I got derailed before I finished recounting the laundry list of laxatives and suppositories I imposed upon my poor little goddess.  Well, let’s just say it was a “butt load”.  Literally. (the list includes two rounds of glycerine suppositories).  Meanwhile, she refused to sit on the potty at all.  She’d stiffen and yell and put up an impressive fight.  Which of course stirred and stoked the hell fires inside me to unbearable degrees.

Do I have to do a play by play of this bone-crushing saga?

What I want you to know, is that I have felt extremely isolated on this trip… Riding a continuum of Unknown has increased Serena’s demands on me.  And here I am, attempting to hold MYSELF as I navigate the deep waters of losing *the illusion* of control… while constantly being required to hold Serena… through the intensity of crumbling nap schedules and bedtimes, restaurant food that doesn’t appeal to her, pooplessness… to name a few.  I have had too many moments where I want to hurt myself, in response to the excruciating internal pressure.  I keep asking myself why the fuck I was called to this journey to Costa Rica.  The truth is, it was a very clear calling.  The compass of my heart read an unmistakable YES when I tuned in.  Hence, I know I am straight-up dirty dancing with my Destiny.  I just don’t get it.  I thought Destiny was supposed to be laden with glitter and falling balloons and jet streams of happily-ever-after euphoria.

So yesterday, awash with mild jewish neurosis, I opted to take Serena to a clinic down the road, in hopes they’d be able to coax the poop out of her.  The hella young, moderately handsome medic consulted his iPhone, listened to her heartbeat, took her pulse and stuck his white, latex-gloved, pinky finger up her butt to see if there was any obstruction.  Nope.  She was a heart-crushingly willing patient.  I held her and chanted Ganesha’s mantra close to her ear as he performed the invasive procedure.  I shattered when she feebly repeated it, “Om gam ganapatayai namaha”.  OMG.  I love her.

Then, to my disgust, Doctor Boy gave her a watermelon lollipop.  I didn’t know what the fuck to do.  She’s twenty months old for god’s sake.  That’s the last thing she needs, is to curdle her blood chemistry and rot out her teeth.  I let her hold it.  She didn’t know what to make of it, thank God.  (Later, after she’d had as much innocent amusement as one possibly can have with a colorful, crinkly, plastic-adorned ball on a stick, I covertly tossed it in the trash.)  Doctor Boy said I should nurse her less and give her more fruits and watery, fibrous foods, including jars of Gerber mush.  Ummm yeah… no thanks Dude.  I cried out of helplessness and guilt that Ken had to pay fifty bucks for that nonsense.  Serena kissed my heart.

And now for the ending that indeed reads like a sweet, red cherry.

Yesterday, on our late afternoon wander (to a bookstore, where a book on how to create a compelling, widely read and lucrative blog leapt off the shelf a tackled me, insisting to be mine), when the outrageous thunder, lightening and deluge struck.  We ducked into a charming burger shack and ate a delicious meal, after which Serena began to fuss.  I had a sense that she needed to poop.  She hadn’t peed for hours either.  So I took her to a gravel area at the edge of the restaurant, and encouraged her to squat and pee.  She resisted, but finally succumbed, and proceeded to produce a soft-serve pile of poop… which she sat in and smeared all over her little butt.  This horrified her.  She cried and writhed and got it all over her dress.  I did my best to remain cucumber calm, totally approving and celebratory, as I undressed her, placed her poopy dress in a wad on the wet gravel and procured a clump of wet paper towels to clean her off.  Then, with more paper towels, I picked up the warm, stinky pile of poop and chucked it in some jungly underbrush nearby.

Ken scrambled to pay the check and we made our way back to our room, me carrying naked, stinky Serena on my back, and holding her poopified dress between my thumb and forefinger.

And now for the all-too-obvious and corny punchline:

The story is just as Genesis doth spake…. In the beginning there was the Word.  And the Word was “poo-poo”…………..(insert the creation of the World here)………… And on the sixth day—-

She pooped.

EPILOGUE:

So I successfully banged out the first draft of this blog while she slept this morning.  (A measurable accomplishment which flushed me with grounded euphoria…)  When she woke, she was unusually fussy.  I felt her body shudder, as I held her close.  I asked her if she wanted to sit on the “pot-pot”, to which she slung a bold, stubborn, “NO.”  But her body disagreed.  More firm, soft-serve poop leaked out onto my tank top.  Again I endeavored to remain calm as I carried her to the bathroom and straddled the toilet with her in my arms in the poop position.  I encouraged her to drop Bunny, but she refused and he got smeared with feces.  At this point, her body was hopelessly in charge, to the dismay of her *impressive* will.  Multiverses of poop spewed from her tiny, helpless body.  In multiple rounds.  I couldn’t believe she had THAT MUCH to poop out.  HOLY SHIT indeed.  At a certain point, as I held her on the potty, I noticed her eyes were closed, and her awareness was completely internalized.  Something I’ve never witnessed.  Afterward, I could tell that she was deeply impacted by the experience.  A layer of her innocence seemed to have sloughed off.  For quite some time, she was quiet and just wanted to be held.  Talk about INTENSE.  Now, hours later, she is back to her curious, vivacious self.  And I am soooooo relieved.

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Potent Reflections by a Heavyweight Goddess

By now you must be aware that smoking pot leads to “harder stuff”… Well, it naturally follows that the same is true for head shaving.  Yes.  Later this morning, Athena-the-Saucy will have one of her precious teeth extracted.   Heck, why not lighten my load?  Anybody want a kidney?  This heart is pretty awesome too….

This is my stab at making light of something that I honestly feel pretty sucky about.  And yet, there IS truth in that letting go of my hair did serve as a useful “warm-up” for this more permanent and tragic exercise in non-attachment.  Naturally, as I type this, my mind leaps to the box of dust nestled in the carved wooden chest in the corner, formerly known as “my Ma”.  The few gaping blackheads on her cheek that used to seduce and taunt me (I wish I had’ve asked her to squeeze them!)…. The hand(s) that poured forth the most perfect handwriting ever and clutched the steering wheel of her little red Mazda Protege, as she sped around The Village…. Dust.

And here’s little Athena Grace, breaking a sweat over a single, paltry tooth.  But teeth are so meaningful.  For most of my life, I have had recurring dreams (or shall I call them “nightmares”, because I certainly wake up with a pounding heart…) of losing my adult teeth…. and now they are real.  Let’s just cut to the heart of it.  I’m afraid I will be less lovable, lacking a tooth.  Less attractive.  Less….

But perhaps this is a secret recipe for Liberation with a capital L.  Because if you possess any intelligence at all, you know those fears are exactly that.  My body parts (or lack thereof) do not determine my worth.  Deeeep breath.  I’m honestly jazzed to finally not have a pus volcano living in my mouth anymore.  (Plus, it’s on the bottom… so not quite as screaming as it would be if it was on the top.)  I gave my best effort to healing the infection naturally:  changing my diet, taking massive doses of vitamin c, taking a cocktail of the badass, fat soluble vitamin trio– A, D, K2, acupuncture and chinese herbs… But the damn tooth just wanted to come the fuck out.  And seriously, releasing my hair was a gateway.  I let it go, and I realized that I am still the same potent, regal essence of indestructible love that I always have been and always will be…. so take my fuckin tooth, bitches!!!  In your face!!!!

Just don’t take anymore, ok?…… I’m only thirty seven years old for goddess sake.  Let a woman enjoy her goddamn body parts for a while, willya???

Do you think I’d be a better writer if I didn’t allow myself to jump from topic to topic, like a strung out monkey in a bouncy house?  But if I did exercise such discipline, I wouldn’t have gotten to birth that awesome sentence….  And I think this world is already saturated with tidy, well-behaved, modestly contained essays, anyway.  I’m here with you now, so I might as well make the best use of your illustrious and intoxicating attention.

As I was *devotionally* making my coffee this morning, my mind skidded gracefully into the groove of the pervasive patriarchal paradigm…. Explicitly, how most women take on their husbands’ last name.  Often without even a question of like “why does this practice smell like dead, rotting fish?”….

Names are divinity, powerfully called into form.  Women!?!?  Why do you allow yourselves (and even aspire) to be called into form as your husband’s property?  It’s a subtle relinquishment of your sovereignty, in the name of feeling secure, chosen, loved.  Yes, I recognize that was a totally brash statement to make.  But come ON.  Let’s be done beating around the damn burning bush already!  We are queens, selling ourselves into slavery!!!!  But I suppose we are born into the chains of our fathers’ names, to begin with… so it seems like a welcome relief to flee to the initially erotic clutches of our husbands’ lineage.

It’s super fun to be so extreme and opinionated.  Liberating, even.  Being an empath, I used to try not to rub anyone too wrong…. because I took responsibility for their experience and feelings and I wanted everyone to like me.  But I’m learning to have a damn backbone.  I gave my energetically sensitive friend Chandra a mantra, recently.  It goes, “That’s YOUR shit, bitch!”  Haha, it’s totally funny BECAUSE it’s real.  But as a writer, it’s a little different.  I aim to say stuff that’s profoundly relevant to your journey…  But I know this is relevant.  I’ve gotta trust myself on this.  My deep calling is to gloriously inhabit Woman in service to ALL WOMEN and this gorgeous, generous planet, Herself.

So just think about it.  Why do you choose to become a limp rag doll who wears your man’s lineage… inadvertently abandoning your own?  And when I say, “your own”, I’m not talking about your daddy’s.  I mean your lineage as a Goddess.  A Priestess.  A magical, winged, enchantress, ever-rooted in the rhythmic, pulsing, oceanic infinity of LOVE.

I always felt burdened carrying my dad’s name.  “Horwitz”.  It never felt like the truth of me.  More like an anvil I was tethered to.  It took a goddess rooting in my womb to thrust me into the willingness to break a sweat and leap through the sprawling chain of bureaucratic hoops, and officially cut myself loose from that burdensome weight.  Now, she and I are full fledged founding mothers of the Matriarchal Society of Graceland!!!!  I feel great about that.  Like I stood for my Self.  And please spare me the arguement that my “True Self” is beyond name and form… and all that spiritually enlightened mumbo jumbo.  Like, yeah, DUH.  But I am here to inhabit this body and this world as the divine fullness that I AM.  I am here to play the Game in Love’s name, and WIN.  For the Team.  That means mastering this rigorous curriculum of career and money and relationships and all the shit that spiritually inclined types are tempted to bypass.  I’ve spent enough lives, enlightened on mountaintops.  This is the championship round.

And I own this fucker.

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