Alone. My favorite word. Ever. Sometimes.

Wouldn’t it be fucking aweful if I died before I got famous as a writer?  As much as my tongue lusts for the taste of faaaame… I’m not feeling the “waste your life becoming a dead prodigy” vibe.  There is this– what are those people who love to flaunt themselves all over the place–exhibitionist, oh yeah…  There is an exhibitionist in me who neeeeeds to liiiiiiive this.  She will not be silenced by masking tape, nor death.  She must cry the words of her heart like a jubilantly bubbling volcano.  

Oh my goddd what am I talking about.  I have written like twelve books today already… and then the salty swagger of my mind has whacked them all down as though they were mere weeds in the orchard.  And here I am now, stoned as I’ve been for the past…. Ummm…. Weeeeeek annnnnnnd God I have fallen off the time space  continuum and I really don’t love it.  I’m not really a stoner at heart I guess.  Well… I DO love to trip.  But I don’t love to recoil deeper into myself.  Oh maybe I do.  But only for a little while.  And then pop out into the euphoric thrill of palpable Togetherness.  

Anyway I’m NOT in love with being stoned and coffee is the magikal friend who hustles and rustles the ride’em wild brain cells; brings them back into an orderly bunch upon their magic carpet.  Yeah this is waaaay too hard.  To write.  But I need to do it.  And say something juicy and profound.

It’s like I’m walking about the Train that is Life and peeking out the picture window where death lurks.  And this seems at first like a scary thing, but it’s really just another window to look out of.  Until you’re off the train…

Anyway I just spoke with my dad.  I wanted to claim this time alone ALL FOR MEEEE…. But… I’m tested every time and made to face that ancient and essential question… when faced with my last mOMent (which perhaps is really the first and the serpent is greedily slurping his slick and slimy tail) would I keep said mOMent alll for my smarmy little SELF…. 

Or would I, for example, answer the phone and share it with my Dad.  And then, if I chose to share it with my dad, as Life would have it… Would I REALLY be “sharing it” with my dad, or would I just pretend to be, while I clutched “it” close to my chest and clenched my heart and hoped for the best.  No.  That’s not such a fulfilling way to have relationships, Athena.  So there I am with my soft coffee buzz melting across the screen of “Reality”.  My dad’s voice on the other end of my smart phone.  

And basically people~ it’s a classic case of two people who would just be better off if they just loved each other (haha this is our quintessential collective classic case)… and…. And what?  What gets in the way for me with my dad?  I guess I want him to be more consistently demonstrative.  And enthusiastic.  And shamelessly adoring.  Haha.  Just laughing because expectations are so unwieldy to carry around.  And if I had to show up that way all the time, I’d be tired for sure!  

This play is so stupid!  And so precious.  THAT is the moral of the story.  Take it to heart people.  We’ve probably all had moments of hating life, cursing our own… part of Her very own dark seduction is this searing hatred.  The liberated and throbbing ecstasy of aversion.  Yes, I have marinated in my own thick, sludgy pool of misgivings and then when this fragile and stunning dream threatens to be torn from my irreverent fingertips and I am uproarious.  Absolutely NOT you CAN’T rip this poetically dripping life from me.  Not yet.  No way.

But back to my dad…

I try to imagine what it’s like for HIM.  Seventy two or whatever… and he’s facing the possibility of losing his forty one year old daughter who lives across the world from him with her two young kids and your relationship was never a sparkling example of sunday skool, Jesus Mary and Joseph kinda love.  I often feel defensive… when he asks me questions about my healing path.  But today I remembered that he is simply seeking connection.  I was gonna throw in some kinda cheap afterthought blow to his character… like that he’s not the expert at creating connection. But then I realized that perhaps he IS.  He has been working the Crap Table for longer’n I been alive.  Such a post does require a hearty dose of connection I believe.  I tend to put myself on a pedestal at times and imagine others as less than divine brilliance (sometimes I put others above and me below, just to keep it fresh)… And through this experience of “sickness”, I can see that when I cast others in the “inferior” intelligence roll, the Play is not so much fun to “play” in…. Let alone “STAR” in.  

That’s a huge piece of this thing.  This “sickness”.  Is like groping inside to find that OTHER life.  The one that is an expression of WELLNESS.  The me that is living in Alignment.  AS alignment.  I feel myself reconfiguring… I hope it all works out ok!  Wink…

So my cute dad… It’s sorta understatedly endearing that he flounders and falls short.  The humanness is the point.  I too often forget this, expecting everyone (and myself) to be holier than Thou… and the world becomes a cacophony of crashing cups and plates as porcelain songs and blown glass dances CRASH, here and there and all about!

Something else that I don’t want to talk about is what will happen to Serena if I don’t make it to the other side of this raging river.  Suddenly it’s so like that.  The water is roaring in my ears and I’m screaming out above it… 

Don’t fuckin drop me.  

Yeah I don’t want to talk about what will happen with Serena.  It’s just a Thing.  A very Serious and Important Thing.  And it’s wild… trying to be “good” and “responsible” and face it.  But it’s basically like peeping your head down this corridor of time in which you do not exist.  And at some point along in this humming hallucination, you realize you are dreaming into your own bodily demise and then you hafta ask yourself if that’s really the neighborhood you want to linger in…  

I don’t. 

But also I do… a little bit.  

Enough to add juice and spice to my simmer.  I try to remember who I was… before I had kids.  Before life got so top-heavy.  Before my hope was blue lipped and frigid.  I was all hopped up on magical sauce.  People called me “Peter Pan”.  I had never walked the darkest streets.  Is that true?  No.  I’ve always veered onto dark streets.  But how can anyone have the rooted maturity to inhabit their life as the Unsayable Gift that it is, until they have nearly (or completely) lost (and then found) this tender flame and the breath that Sustains.  God I nominate myself for asking the Rhetorical Question of the Fucking Year.  Can one inhabit such precious innocence without first facing it’s loss?  It sure helps in my case…. Rubbing up against all these rough edges of Life, until I am smooth as FUCK.  

And then WHAT???

Haha ya got me.  And then… I’m smooth as fuck.  And hopefully my smoothness will be of value to you somehow… or not… maybe I was better when I was jagged and I refracted the light with a savage flash, reminiscent of Her merciful eye.  I guess I shant try to run anywhere.  

Actually, THIS is exactly where I want to be.  On my belly on my bed in the afternoon sun ALONE listening to Adey Bell and roaming about the space that ONLY I AM capable of encountering, and fitting it into strings of beaded brilliance that if we are lucky will catch The First Light and strike a bonfire orchestra of Remembrance…  Isn’t it amazing what words and mOMents and bodies can do?  That innocent flashing refraction of the infinite… disguised in hum-drum-mundane costumes.    

I’m smooth and clever as fuck, but I still don’t want to unpack all the feelings around searching for new parents for my daughter who ONLY BELONGS WITH ME.  God, please look through my eyes.  With your outrageous and simple LOVE.  From here, all is well and makes as much sense as it needs to.  

But please God…. help me get across this ferocious river.  Seriously.                 

Alone in Forsaken Scapes.

I am alone.  It is a strange sensation… to be alone in my house on a rainy sunday.  Serena will come home soon, which has me “writing with one eye open”… but this is better than nothing.  Forest is with his dad for the day.  The rain falling outside looks like sifted powdered sugar, but it is not snow.  Thank God. 

I am alone.  Last night Shanti-ma came over and “counseled me”.  She’s a good counselor because she is able to stay rooted in a neutral and honest plot of reality.  And she is attuned to divine love and wisdom.  I was expressing the recent torrential gales of need I feel related to love from man/men.  I guess it’s always been in me… this need… of daddy’s adoring love.  But since things fell apart with Giordano, it has been deafening in moments.  I watch this desperate part of me grasping for an externalized sense of masculine presence and love.  I know there must be something IN ME… that I have lost touch with.  My inner masculine, my inner marriage.  And meanwhile this wounded female predator stalks prey.  A man to seduce and conquer.  Make him SEE ME.  Make him LOVE ME.  

Thankfully at this point I am able to remain rooted in the consciousness of witness.  Plus, I don’t have the “luxury” of acting it out, because I am too busy being mom and anyway there aren’t any compelling men around.  Praise the Lord.  The LAST thing I need right now is more man trouble.  My unwieldy husband is plenty!  

Anyway, when I confessed this “ugly shadow” to Shanti-ma, she said, “You are alone.” Then a brazen pause, which formed a chasm and the words and their meaning bled into the soil of silence within. “I am alone. Everyone is alone. And sometimes it is lonely. And anyone who pretends it isn’t is deluding themself and others. But you can call Him up. When you are feeling alone. And He will be with you.”

Or something like that.  If my life were to be made into a feature film, this scene would definitely make the cut.  It would even make the TRAILER.  It was such a sober, slicing moment.  A moment of intimacy from one glorious and bleeding holy soldier to another.  Like “let’s not waste anymore time with pretense.  Your asshole does NOT need anymore smoke up in it, my Friend.

And now for my latest reflection on vulnerability.  This exquisite “Italian Sister” gave me an astrology/numerology reading to help me elucidate the passage I am making now.  She mentioned that I struggle with true vulnerability.  This assertion snagged my curiosity.  I perceive myself as one who values and has some amount of fluency in the realm of vulnerability.  But is this just an ego-stained overlay?  Maybe, I mused, I am savvy in “controlled vulnerability”… I share “vulnerably” in my writing… yet I am always in control of what I show you, and what I keep for myself, and even from myself.  

Not that there’s anything wrong with what I do.  I see beauty and grace in what and how I share… but I am still wondering… what is TRUE VULNERABILITY.  Heart to heart, soul to soul.  No filters.  Groundless.  Free-falling.  Have I EVER fully experienced such a phenomenon?  

She said that in the face of this quintessential terror of my true vulnerability, I rely on a false sense of strength.  And my work is to dismantle this knee-jerk shadow boxing match with myself.  Ok, that’s not exactly how she said it…    😉

My energy healer said that my tumors are all the pain that I have been through… consolidated into four precise points.  And that in order to heal them, I MUST tune IN to them and write.  Write it all through my system.  Write them into annihilation.  This is simultaneously daunting and thrilling.  Like there’s NOTHING I’d rather do than enter into the deepest reaches of my being and write it down in the name of Healing For All… and yet… I doubt my capacity to reach this far IN.  

Shanti-ma said I have anger issues.  Because I reach out to her when I am triggered as fuck by Darling Giordano.  And it’s pretty easy for me to go up in flames these days.  Which may indeed indicate “anger issues”.  She said Giordano is just a catalyst for the deep stuff that’s ready to come up and out… That the one who is angry is so young.  

Perhaps even vulnerable. 

I know I have “inner child issues”… Because I have a hard time connecting with “Dawnie-Cakes”.  (my nickname as a child)  When I look inside for her… radio silence.  Where is she hiding?  And meanwhile I butt heads with Serena too often.  She mostly feels that I don’t give her enough attention, so she acts out and pisses me off in order to get more of me.  But her demands and sass and stubbornness trigger the shit out of me.  Hello anger issues. She cries.  My nervous system cringes and explodes.  I demand she STOP.  She goes harder.  I shout.  LOUD.  I feel sick.  This is a pattern of sickness.  It must be healed.

Shanti-ma says that Serena is my Inner Child.  And when one of these episodes commences, the most healing choice is to dive beneath the waves and “go to her”, hug her.  It is ME.  This sounds so simple, right?  It’s not.  When I am triggered, heated, angry, it is SO HARD to let go and hold her.  Practice will make me perfect.  I have some work to do.   I’m talkin deeep ancestral healing.  I know this is what I am here for.

Remember- we have the power to set so many free when we bring love to the forsaken scapes within.