Monday

Mondays come and bring with them an empty house. A blanket of quiet.

I eat my breakfast. I notice the sound of knife and fork on plate, the hum of the refrigerator, my dog snoring, a crow outside.

I am tempted to turn the television on to add a layer of human presence into the space.

I decide not to. I stay with the quiet.

I probably will not speak out loud to another person until the middle school bus pulls up.

That is not a very long time, but quiet stirs my impatient nature, rubs up against the raw skin of my insecurity. I get agitated at the space.

Why?

I sip my coffee and consider the gift of space to feel. To sense. To experience. The discomfort of being with myself. A great gift.

I go back to unwrapping it.

Run

It was not supposed to rain today, but it is.

We went running anyway.

An older man came down his driveway, he grinned and said, "Hey it's raining!", he finished his proclamation with a chuckle.

We chuckled back and said, "It is?!"

I need to run most on days like this one. It keeps the dark, the chill, the heavy energy from sinking through my body and settling into my spirit.

I am running away from things, literally.

Running from depression, from anxiety, from these internal foes that seem committed to pursuing me.

I may be outnumbered, but I have stamina.

Done

I used to be a person who got stuff done.

That came after the time when I was an abject failure, a loser, a criminal.

My life was over, then it wasn't.

That is when expectations came marching in. I started marching. Fell in line.

Get things done. Once you get those things done, do more things, bigger things, better things.

I just finished sweeping the floor, now I will fold laundry. I get some things done.

But these days I don't get me done.
I am not even sure what that means anymore.

Who am I?

Really, I want to go out deep in the woods, away from the world and all its doing, and be done.

But today the laundry.

Even to signal the completion of this post, I have to click on the word "DONE" with a check mark in front of it.

Moon

Today is the full moon.

I am drawn to ceremony. I have always been a nature mystic. I call it that not because it fits perfectly, but because of a lack of language. As a child it came as deep resonance and knowing, it did not and does not fit into the small container of words.

Today I light candles and sage, visit the river, bow to the earth, whisper my deepest prayers for healing and awakening.

I ask to be guided towards the manifestation of my highest good and my deepest healing.

Many people laugh at such notions, and I don't care.

None of my spirit and what I know I belong to has anything to do with anyone else.

I do not push anyone toward anything. I am only trying to find myself.

I pray to the sun, moon, stars, heaven and earth, because that is the way that arises from my nature.

Today is the full moon, a day of manifestation.

I only wish to manifest more of myself.

Simple, pure, true.

Hide

We can hide from so many things. We can even hide from ourselves.

We can bury things out in the backyard, or way out in the woods, where we think they will remain forever.

Things once hidden come calling. Someday.

Truth telling is hard work, and it is slippery. Truth changes. It is hard to get hold of, and as soon as I think I have it, it shifts like the light and shadows in this room. The arc of story is not fixed. It is moving, just as the light of day will move through this space, into darkness, and back again.

I wonder what I am hiding, from others, but more from myself. I know some things, I can touch them. Others are there, things forgotten, neglected, things denied, things that hurt too much to exhume.

So they wait.

Movement

Movement is life.

That is a line from a poem I wrote in anticipation of my son moving away to attend college.

If the heart stops beating, blood stops flowing, lungs stop expanding and releasing, we die.

Since my son was born we have moved, and moved. 5 states, 3 countries, 2 continents. 8 homes in 18 years.

Each time we move is like dying and being brought back to life. It seems like it gets harder each time now. It takes so much out of me.

I love to dance, to run outside, to hike forest trails, do yoga, swim in a lake. Movement calls to me, and I go to it. It is a powerful agent of healing in my life.

I have been in this house nearly 5 months now. I force myself to my healing movement practices. My heart beating, blood flowing, lungs expand and release.

But in truth I am tired.

In truth I have endurance and stamina.

So when there is mention of a recruiter calling from London, I tighten, and want to brace. Curl up hard as stone. Become immovable, but that is not life.

Movement is life.

Halloween

My 12 year old is standing in the kitchen dressed up as a Pink Lady. She is sweet, she is so innocent, well adjusted. She has a life full of abundance and privilege.

I started smoking at 12. I look at her and try to imagine her lighting up, like Sandra Dee at the end of Grease. It blows my mind. It is absurd.

I was not well adjusted, not even trying to be good.

I knew I was bad.

Halloween in the traditional sense is a day when we can more easily contact spirits and ancestors. It is also a day to fend off evil, to protect ourselves from malevolent forces.

I pause to consider today in that way. What forces and spirits I want to draw close, those guides out in front of me and within me, and what I want to ward off.

But I think all of it just wants to be seen, loved, set free.

A friend of mine and I have been discussing, belonging, goodness, and our culture of purity and performance.

I was not bad at 12, or 16, or 20, or ever. I performed a role I was pushed into. I surrendered to what I was told I was. I performed, and my performance lived. I embraced it. I wore a mask. Badness.

I perform now too. I wear a mask. It is one of goodness. Good mom, good citizen, repectful, trying hard to please, trying hard not to offend. Being good.

Neither mask in the end serves my truth, they both stifle and oppress.

I am conflicted and confused in all this. I am my own labyrinth. I think maybe we all are. We are complex, so much bigger than simplistic notions of good or bad.

I carry that with me today. I walk with it, dance with it, light a candle to it. May it all rise to its highest, most free form.