Monthly Archives: October 2012

It all falls heavy on me.

It all falls heavy on me.

My typical daydream-tendency of deep contemplation throughout each day has felt different lately. Things are heavier now; more tangible somehow.

There certainly seems to be a shift in the collective consciousness’ wavelength; there’s a whole lot of sorrow and a maddening amount of madness and a general consensus that seems set on sadness.

Instead of abiding the urge of resisting it, I took a leap of faith and embraced it. I let it come over me, strong and heavy, until it settled and began to form itself around my understanding of what it all meant.

Why is everyone so sad lately? What on earth is going on? Where has all the laughter gone?

I found the answers to these questions. If you’d like to explore what I found, please watch the video posted in the first comment below.


WordPress: Have Mercy

WordPress: Have Mercy

I have a confession to make.

I think blogging is stupid.

Don’t get me wrong; I love-love my blog-folk with mad-crazy ferocity. I really do.
The people with whom I’ve developed a virtual comradery are as much a “real” part of my day-to-day life as the poopy diapers I change and the seventy-three bags of garbage I take outside after dinner and the eighteen loads of laundry I wash, dry, and fold in a twenty-four hour period.

Maybe that’s why these otherwise perfect strangers have come to mean so much to me: they are my daily honeymoon from the real-world monotonies of being a stay-home mother of five boys.

Blogging is a vacation, during which I travel to distant lands and relax in the novelty of some unexpected idea for half an hour or so, being romanced by the experience of thoughts exchanged. Every few hours I get to take a mental hiatus from the twins fistfighting; the pre-teen disappearing; the three-year old teaching the infant how to dump the contents of the refrigerator into the toilet until the water turns into a condiment-colored waterfall and makes rainbows on the hall carpet; the neighbors stopping by to visit and catch up on the latest catastrophe; the casserole burning in the oven while the phone continues to shriek incessantly, the ringtone ruining my love of that favorite song and reminding me that my husband is nowhere near as busy as I am while the satellite repairman asks for the fifth time where he can access the attic; the pre-teen reappearing followed by a riotous outbreak of adolescent screaming over the pre-teen refusing to join in their wrestlemania…

This isn’t an exaggeration. It’s a fairly accurate glimpse into the life I lead, on days that don’t involve trips to the hospital or broken furniture or nervous breakdowns, of course.

But “blogging”? The word sounds archaic and desperate. Like a nerd, trying too hard to get invited to the “cool kid’s” party on Friday night. Like something all the mid-lifers do to substitute the less intellectual-seeming habit of facebook trolling. As a practice, I (still) have yet to call myself a “blogger.”

It isn’t the blogging that has us hooked like suburban cyber-junkies. It’s really not “blogging” at all. It’s writing, publicly. It’s thinking, publicly. It’s daring to throw yourself onstage — and discovering there’s a REAL, LIVE audience waiting to hear what you have to say. Most of all, it is the magic and wonder of words. Words on fire. Words in motion. Words with kinetic power to transform your day into a more vibrant shade; a more thoughtful frame of mind; a more aware and centered vibe with which you can return to everyday living. It’s a break from reality — for ten or fifteen or forty-five minutes; on your laptop, on your smart phone, in your car or locked in your bedroom while the children get a crash course in survival 101.

It’s a community of people who are interested, and interesting. You don’t have to sort through news feeds of who-had-what for lunch and where that one guy takes his hamster for emergency veterinarian care, or who’s child is ten times cuter than yours (for the fifteenth time today).

I still don’t know all the rules. Can I change the word? That would really help. I say we call it YES!-ing. Or dackta-ballooping. Or some similarly ridiculous term that seemingly comes from nowhere and sounds much like an underwater sea-lion doing some underwater thing. You know. Whatever.

I respond too sporadically to my fellow bloggers, too seldom at times, and yet with too long of a response when I do. Yes, I’m the person who hijacks your threads. I thought it would be a compliment! My way of expressing how much your thoughts inspired my thoughts. . . (Boggles my mind. Hey! Let’s call it “boggling”!!)

I have no idea what a widget is, or how to pingback (wait, is that a verb or a noun?); I probably don’t follow as many “boggles” as I should but I’m ADD, and frankly I’m doing well to manage the few I’ve followed without one of my children seriously injuring themselves, or worse. (I mean, not really. But sort of.)

I can’t figure out all the ‘ins’ and ‘outs’ of “blogosphere” ‘etiquette’. I’ve irritated quite a few people, gained and misplaced a handful of followers, and yet somehow I manage to continue making progress.

Just do me a favor WordPress: have some mercy on me. I’m a frazzled, couped-up stir-crazy mom who also happens to be a writer. I’m not here for notoriety or accolades, and I’m likely to mess up the all these manners I know I should have learned by now; but I promise, I’m learning and growing.

I love this place, in all its diversity. I love the brilliant minds, shining like diamonds, illuminating their own perfect wonder into my days.

I cherish what all of you have to say. And for what it’s worth: I’m listening. 🙂

I’m a Circle, Squared

I’m a Circle, Squared

“Keep on going,” in what was meant as a whisper
Collapses heavy now in the kaleidescopic membranes of my cerebellum.

Sound. Wave. Bounce off the eardrum
And make these synapses dance
(Dancing is as dancing does)

At midnight, with her slipper

For coming undone
Becoming won under (and -over occasions)
In which
Serendipity has taken a chance

Shines here, the sun.

On me.
(A lady, I honor my bets)
As good as it gets
Ready set goes it,
Sudden ka-pow

The mind is full of fireworks
They startle,
Us in times as these
Butterflies flitter
And weakening knees

As if the throttle
of humanity’s collective consciousness is broken
in the full-on hammer-down position/stance.

Which way are we going? Which way are we going?

Faster than you planned to navigate
But that’s what seatbelts were made for.
The oops we should have done better.
Maybe next time, maybe never

Collision, and light, met with color and sky.

Brain. Wave.
Tell my mouth what to say,
Unspeaking with wild-eyed wonder.

Plunder, under, deeper beneath
Action: reaction. Equal is ever is
Always that thunder
Goes boom
and it

…rolls baby, my how it rolls

The birth of a thought

Hypothalamus triggered
(Quite the old giver)
And given to all sorts of whimsies, I’m told.

…my brain always tells me what to say.
I do not like her anyway.

Floating on a frequency
Is much like flying,
Only not.

And beneath the calm collectedness
The heart pushes over and over,

The blood through its chambers
Emotion is danger

With peace being sought

What is a pulse called
Without one’s own body?

Without any certainty
Ready as ever
Certainly I’m not so sure anymore
Sure only now that the curse is the cure
One and then two
As these thoughts often do

They are their own compass
And majesty too.

Buckle your shoe
(I do, yes I do)

Bellow your truth
To the oceans of forever surrounding you.
Once I lost myself at sea
The sea had lost herself in me

Return to thee, return to thee.

What are we made of?
Statistics suggest
I am 80% water
But only 50% dense

Evaporated plans for a future
Once so wide
My sea isn’t dead
It became my blue sky

Continually catapulting
Myself through its forever,
My soul through its endlessness
Bracing its abysses

I must say I was in fact
always partial to flying
If given to choose between an eternity of blue
Where one is wet and one is You,

My perfect-fallen night
The stars were always meant to soothe

Orion and her belt
Are dancing-dipping with a dipper

So much love
And “going on, I keep”
A whisper only with her.

My Purified Frame of Mind

My Purified Frame of Mind

There’s a stillness and a sorrow
Resting in the hush of this moment
I pull myself out from the sinking of it
Playing peek-a-boo with peace;
I surrender. Finally. Feeling the onset of ease

You can’t resist the spirit, you know
It has its own certain terrains to traverse
Whether welcomed or dreaded,
Prepared for or procrastinatingly headed
the depths of it, open themselves up for you
In anticipation of your own personal coming.

Sometimes I don’t belong to the world in which I live
Extraterrestrial understanding
Never sat well with the unknowing all around me
But I’ve accustomed myself to its customs
The dictates and indoctrinations;

I don’t have to stomach it to swallow it
I don’t have to buy into it to buy it
The albatross wears nicely on my neck.
A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down,
In the most delightful way.

Sometimes I wonder what we look like to the stars
How lonely we must seem, even from a place so far
in my desperation I long to go
Row row row my boat so merrily and such.
Venitian canals where the crossroads are not roads, but merely water
And at sunset the streets become made of gold
(Someone should tell the miners in Alaska
they’ve been looking in all the wrong places)

I noticed (on that note) on the Discovery channel
(during an advertisement for that gold-digging show)
That the gold-rush folks hit it big this season;
the producers of the program say they hit the “MotherLODE.”
My husband mocks my dismay at this blindingly-incorrect spelling
What he doesn’t know
Is that the rubbing-me-wrong is rooted in my distaste for all things modern

What if the world’s electricity shut down?
No gas pumps working no stores open now
Spoiled food and anarchy
Because we all forgot how to fend for ourselves.

If I could have only one wish granted,
I’d move up in the hills somewhere
Maybe Northern California, West Virginia or Wyoming
Teach my boys how to live off the land
Catch and clean their own fish
Set traps and make music by a beautiful fire
Bait their own hooks and hunt with bare hands
Prepare for winter and sow harvests
from the soil beneath their ever bare feet

Sometimes I slip into daydreams where the boundary is blurred
Between the reality I’m living and the reality I’ve heard
nighttime gypsy-longings
and unsung folk-song harmonies
these soul rhythms in my heart, of these, are made.

One time, not so long ago
I dreamt it and I stayed
Within the dream, my body awake
My eyes wide open to the promises He gave

“Love is patient, love is kind,” I hear my gentle Master say
And so I sing these lonesome songs
in harmony with my brain
Which tends to make its very own waves,
and rides them
like some solitary surfer
content to determine each one’s length

Frequencies in rhythm with the One and Only
Humbled with humility
The purity and honesty
Of coming to terms (and some form of acceptance)
With the temperature of each day.

The place my life right now resides
Has hard-core heavy seasons
And comically, the climate is considered mild here. Temperate.
I’d like to temper-Ate each and every botoxed meteorologist’s face
For undermining my discomfort in the weather of my days
On these kinds of days, to be precise
When I wasn’t prepared
For the monsoon rains
Freezing heat
And blistering cold
The lowest highs and highest lows
Occasionally, here it snows. Even in the summer
And believe it or not
Things will actually grow
in the winter’s spontaneous, occasional, unbearable 90 degrees
The things we aren’t unexpecting often lead us to our knees

This morning, my dad randomly called me. No reason in particular.
Mentioned briefly this “dream (he) had after he awoke;
Flying suddenly, up high, way off the ground
Five cylinders appeared; they were circular and rotating, taking up the entire sky.” I wonder then, if he somehow became cylindrical
and if it made him dizzy.

Spinning is certainly how we exist. Look at this planet. Rotating, so ignorantly around its axis.
If I was human, would my axis be this? The perceptions all part of existence.

Conundrum, prelude, afterlude. Enigma, prelude, afterlude. These visions and these seemings.

Dreams within the dreaming.

Eyes allow the heart to see the universe’s revelries. I stop and pay attention,
and my pulse is my own drum. It beats it beats it’s beating. Co-nun-drum. Co-nun-drum. Dancing, it is dancing, to its own quick silent beat.

In wonder, and at heaven’s feet: I dance, I kneel, I take a seat. I say the things my mouth can’t speak, my heart so full with awe.

Joy isn’t proof of some goal we can meet
Waiting visibly in front of us after this this and that;
Joy is defined in the journey itself; it’s who we are now, wherever we’re at. Joy is found in the narrow path.
Whichever road you choose to travel,
I offer this: just lose the map.