Virabhadrasana I

I’m falling today.

Yesterday I was balanced. I nailed dancer balanced left, nearly nailed it right. Both sides of my wheel were stable and secure. Pressing as though I would tear the mat in half, Virabhadrasana foundation was both deep and lifted, squeezing thighs together and lifting up through my front body and grounding through my back. No shaking transitions. Graceful reversal of sequence. I felt solid and grounded.

Today’s tumbles began in tree, where I normally rest comfortably, my back twinged, my legs wobbled, and the room toppled up and to the left as I fell to the right, tripping over my furry mat mate and startling the downstairs neighbor. Next came warrior one, with Luna snuffling my navel and collapsing in laughter. By this point she’s calling from downstairs, “you ok up there?“ and lastly, bridge, or shall we say London Bridge as I was down briefly after lifting the draw.

The Chitta Vritti that normally pervades my thoughts when things don’t go as planned was quiet. In fact, I waited for her to show up and lead the peanut gallery in a deluge of self criticism and doubt. Instead there was a quiet awareness that the voice was not there. Not in that moment.

I recognized that I was waiting for it, and had a laugh about how I could disassociate twice removed to watch myself watching for myself. The three are one, and for all of my Catholic upbringing this one truth resounds to me – father, son, and ghost; head over heart over pelvis; maiden, mother, crone; mind, sword, and intent- and in so many traditions and not so many words is a universal truth. Everything is connected. Everything has a purpose, even our self doubts and fears, and occasional tumbles on the mat. The fall teaches us to rise.

And for all of the years I beat myself up and pushed myself to be perfect, I had a moment of silence. Respect for all of the years I pushed myself to be perfect to please others to feel loved and accepted. Respect for the decisions I made to survive. Respect for the girl who lived with her whole heart and only wanted that in return.

I’m okay with falling. I no longer fear it. I no longer think it’s good or that it’s bad. I no longer need to be perfect. I trust the process. Today. Tomorrow may be different. And that’s okay too.

“Falling’s just another way to fly” -Emilie Autumn

“Sometimes it takes a good fall to really know where you stand” Haley Williams

‘What if I fall?’, Tim cried. Marylyn Laughed. “Sooner or later, we all do.” -Stephen King, The Dark Tower

dhyana on nature

My love for the deep woods began as a small child. The doors to the house would be locked during the afternoon, and I would spend hours following the stream flowing from the natural spring in the woods behind the house, communing with faeries and making potions with mushrooms and berries and moss. When it’s time for me to dive back in amongst the arboreal groves, a yearning pulls my heart as rope with a grappling hook. With the golden goddess in tow, I set out to answer the song in my heart.

As it is early in the day, we find ourselves to have only the company of squirrels and woodpeckers. Thick with pine needles and fallen leaves, our favorite trail is soft, carpeted and cushioned for quiet passage under the autumn canopy. The ferns have turned golden, and I am reminded briefly of mature wheat in the Kansas wind, although that thought fades as quickly as it came to the chatter and babble of a nearby stream splashing its way down to the reservoir. I find that these memories that used to pervade my thoughts I no longer have desire or will or cause to chase after, and their transience is truly most welcome. Moondog dives in, tail wagging and drinking her fill.

It has been a minute since I was last here. Spring, in fact. The air is different now – musky and sweet, an exhale of relief settling into the soil. As we make our way over root and rock, I notice trees that once stood towering above had broken with the last strong windstorm. One in particular, an old oak, long stripped of its branches and bark, has broken approximately a third of its height up. The remaining trunk and branches balance between the long stump and another nearby oak tree. It appears as if the young stout oak was cradling the fallen with its sturdy branches, and softening the effects of the weather with its bountiful leaves. A soft breeze sways the branches, and they rock gently to and fro, creaking.

After a few hours, the longing in Luna’s eyes tell me it is time. I hate to leave. I could very easily craft a small home, nestled inside the cove created by ancient stone walls that run throughout the woods. I’d roast acorns, forage mushrooms and berries, and make friends with the creatures that also call this wood home, and Luna would continue to, much to my chagrin, snack on deer droppings. Ducking behind a wall to pee, I’m greeted with the swoosh of a hawk, diving feet above my head and landing in a nearby skeleton of a tree. He looks our way as I’m tugging up my jeans, and flies off as quickly and quietly as he came.

Life as we know it will someday not be as it is. We break. Grow older. We fall. If we are so lucky, someone may just happen to be there to catch us and soften the journey. If we are luckier, we will be the one doing the catching. I was reminded today there is as much grace and beauty involved in the falling as there is in the support of the fallen. We all have our time. We all have our season. We all have our turn.

“Love is the only prayer I know.” Marion Zimmer Bradley, The Mists of Avalon

An Epiphany

We are sitting at a 1950s style diner counter, and this time I know I am not dreaming. My gorgeous date is beside me, my beautiful daughter, looking famous in her brand-new burnt orange floral dress. We drool over the vegan menu, each item looking more tasty than the last, however there is nothing as delicious as the sweet smile and twinkle of delight that’s planted on this adorable woman’s face.

We are chatting about relationships and marriage. the patriarchy behind the institution, the curiousness of human nature and culture of needing a permit to have sex, share health insurance, and get royally fucked over when the inevitable end to said contract presents itself. And what else is it but a piece of paper that is truthy worth nothing? Having gone through the process twice myself, I can say that in either case it did not ensure love, fidelity, or longevity. What it did was put money in the pocket of some lawyers who were more than happy to process the request, and also make the process excessively arduous when I wanted to leave.

I mention that if anything, I might marry for money. That is, just money, nothing else. Leave me be to buy a little cabin, to live in with my dog, grow a garden around, and house my ever-burgeoning library. That both of the times I got married, I did so out of fear.

You know that moment when an epiphany happens? To me, it has a sound – like Mario stumbling on a mushroom or fire flower and >>ring-ring-ring<< it’s as though I’ve leveled up and am downloading information from the great beyond. Leading up to experiencing satori in the fall of 2018, I heard this sound seven different times, each one increasing my boldness as I awoke from my slumber. This was no different, although the effect was softer, and less jarring, something I knew deep inside and just never said aloud.

At this, I tell her, it was the first time I had ever had that realization. How insane that was. The first time I got married, I believed if I didn’t, I would have gotten kicked out of the house, earned my mother’s disapproval, and would have been a single mom with two kids. The second time, I believed there would be serious repercussions had I said no, regarding what might happen if I was alone and jobless in a state far away from my family, or that I would lose someone I was mercilessly in love with. And besides, we were already sharing a bookcase. And once your library is intermixed how can you possibly separate?

I was correct, of course. If I had said no in either situation, all of those things may have come to pass. In fact, everything I feared ended up happening, in one manner or another. When we are trying to control a situation we are in, it never can last. When we believe something, we either want it to be true or are afraid it is true. I was acting in out of fear both times instead of living in my truth.

I’ve developed a new truth. I love myself enough now to know that marriage is a road I no longer want to travel down, unless the price is right, they leave me alone, and it comes with a pre-nup. There’s a lot of things I’ll happily share with the right certain someone, but the last thing I will ever share again is my bookcase.

Prajnaparamita

“It’s raining, of course.”

Hauling suitcase, violin, bokken, flower and dog down sixteen stairs (seventeen minus one), with a grocery bag wrapped about my head for good measure, I take three round trips back and forth to Black Beauty. The backseat is of course made up for the golden Goddess, the honey-girl, the lovely lunatic, a Mecca of blankets and treats and stuffies, including the mammoth that’s going on two and a half years now, still one tusk strong. Not that she’ll stay there, however my conscience is relieved knowing that if she wanted comfort, she’d have it. I’ve bottled water and tea and coffee, a bad of cuties and some granola bars, all placed within strategic arms reach.

“You ready Luna?”

Eyes. Snif. Nose wiggle. Tail wagging quickly.

“Ok, let’s do this.”

I’ve always loved road trips. Memories play happily in my mind of being little and riding out to Indiana every other summer or so. The van. Poster board pop had lined the windows with so we would sleep. Signs made with said board “is that your mother in law in the trunk?” held up for followers and passers-by, being confiscated and tossed at the next Stuckey’s. Oh man, Stuckey’s Chicken and the Case of the Violent Diarrhea. Rock Lobster played 20 times in a row and pop beeping the horn in time. Fresh coloring books and the scent of hot crayons. A cooler full of Shasta, exploding as it thawed. And Mom. And M.

We cross the first bridge into Rhode Island, and I’m wishing I had wiper blades for my eyes. “What am I doing?” I ask. “Well, for one thing,” I answer, “you’re traveling for work. And for the other, you’re traveling for you.” My mind stops as the electronic seeing eye clocks my passage and charges a toll.

But tell me you love me, come back and haunt me, Oh and I rush to the start. Running in circles, chasing our tails, Coming back as we are. Nobody said it was easy, oh it’s such a shame for us to part, Nobody said it was easy, no one ever said it would be this hard, oh take me back to the start. -Coldplay

Our first destination is Newport News (Mews, Luna calls it, hoping to find a c.a.t.) a ten hour drive that brings us over new territory. The Chesapeake Bay Bridge, 17 miles of under and over water passage, took my breath away.

“Breathe,” says the Sliph.

Glare off the water strained my eyes as I tried to make form of what might possibly be the other side. I was wrong. It is a good thing I had not prepared myself for this overwater adventure or I may have chosen a more inland route. I’m at my best in situations where confronting fears and challenges is left to chance, embracing the wheel of fortune as it is revealed again and again in my daily draw, and so I adjust the seat a smidge back, and with my hand on the backside of the Pot of Gold, windows rolled down, we embrace the ride.

In music, the bridge is typically where the tone of the song is changed. Lyrically, there’s retrospect and new understanding. In the construct of the chords, there’s typically the introduction of a new progression, using the third, fourth or fifth as tonic, or possibly a change from major to minor or vice versa. In many pop songs there’s often a transition in key, right before the entry to another verse or repetition of chorus. It’s an interval of sorts, that which can change or lend new meaning to words, or even irony in chord choice.

After my initial incredulity passes, I deeply tune in to the feeling of this bridge, how it parallels to the happenings in my life. I’ve left behind what was known and embraced simplicity. I’ve developed a serene rhythm of acceptance. As I know I can’t think of every possible outcome or turn or detour ahead, I’ve learned a quiet acceptance and peace in the chaos of change.

The bridge changes to a tunnel a few times, and Luna’s fur forms a dinosaur-like ridge down her back. She knows when change is happening and is very sensitive to it. I rub her from her neck to tail a few times, and she sits back in the seat. We’ve had each other’s back through many changes in the past few years. I’ve got her back, and I know she has mine.

Upon arrival at the hotel, it’s made abundantly clear that I am no longer the girl I used to be (thankfully). During the short walk to our temporary quarters, I’m aware of my legs are vibrating uncontrollably like an A/C powered Hitachi wand. Heat from the shower and an hour on the mat bring peace to my psoas. Age and use have helped me to understand that I need to take the time I need to care for my body, whether it be eating healthily or exercising or stretching, as much as I need that time for my mind too.

The next day and night pass quickly, and I’m on the road again, due west, diving into the past. Yes, this is a journey of healing. It’s also a yard stick to provide perspective to years of shadow work and trauma therapy. So often I’m bound to the immediate experience, or one from the past, it helps to take a third eye view on just what has actually transpired. The miles tick underneath, and Alan Watts beats in..

The meaning of life is just to be alive. It is so plain and so obvious and so simple. And yet, everybody rushes around in a great panic as if it were necessary to achieve something beyond themselves – Alan Watts

And suddenly again I’m awakened. To identify with healing is also to identify with suffering. I’d become addicted as much to my suffering and the alleviation thereof as I had any drug or sex or hobby du jour. At what point can you say, “that’s it, I’ve healed enough. “ how many times do you check in on a scab and pick at the edges before leaving it alone? If there’s a wound that will not heal, typically there is a sickness feeding it. If there was cocaine in the house, it’d soon be up my nose. So, don’t bring cocaine into the house and even better yet, stop hanging out with the supplier. Stop driving down the street they live on. Move out of town if you have to.

“If thy eye offends thee, pluck it out.” Matthew 5:29

The remainder of my trip is seen through these rose colored glasses, with understanding that everything I am doing is now because I want to, not for some purpose or position. If healing is needed, it will happen naturally. No force needed.

And so, I had a delightful visit with the most beautiful woman in the world. We ate. We cackled. We visited friends and went out in the town. We played with dogs and smoked cloves and dished ideas for creative ventures. We drove downtown into the Crossroads and soaked up art. I made note of how some places change, and others are icons.

What I was most dismayed to see what what I had come for. The Temple. I had built this beast up in my mind as a monolith of magnificence. It was living and breathing, writhing with magic and creative power. Now though, to see it, was as to see a body prepped for embalming- all of the blood, all of the vital energy was gone. And so it was, just another building in a tiny town in the middle of everywhere. All of the meaning, the magic, the life, the power that this structure had was that which I had put into it. Without it, it is merely an organization of limestone and marble.

The journey home is smooth and uneventful. I think of nothing most of the way. I pet the dog. I listen to more Watts, I snack on whatever’s at Love’s and drink black coffee from Starbucks. And really, that’s how this whole business started. A kiss and a black coffee, with a green stopper plugging the steam vent. I started out with a little yellow dog, and ended up with another one.

My life has indeed changed forever. My life would have changed in other ways had I not taken that lunch date extension. And to this I have only to say, I’m okay. I’m okay with what is, whatever it is. People and experiences come and go. Grieve as they come, so that when they go it doesn’t hurt so bad. If you can’t imagine your life without someone or something, that’s hardly romance. It’s addiction, and invitation to suffering.

It is what it is.

You should therefore know the great mantra of Prajnaparamita, the mantra of great magic, the unexcelled mantra, the mantra equal to the unequalled, which heals all suffering and is true, not false, the mantra in Prajnaparamita spoken thus: Gate, Gate, Paragate, Parasangate, Bodhi Svaha. -The Heart Sutra

Through our eyes, the universe is perceiving itself. Through our ears, the universe is listening to its harmonies. We are the witnesses through which the universe becomes conscious of its glory, of its magnificence. -Alan Watts

The future disappears into memory
With only a moment between
Forever dwells in that moment
Hope is what remains to be seen -RUSH

Vrikshasana

Every day I find new
Ways to look at myself and
Love what I’m seeing

I seek challenges
For the sake of the doing
And conquer each one

Getting comfortable
Seeking the uncomfortable
Until it submits

I marvel in this body
Complexities I’ve taken
For granted before

Now stacking up tall
Head over heart and pelvis
Mind over matter

Reintroducing
Myself to myself. Hello.
This is me. I am.

Jack

It all started with a beautiful specimen. Ripe, purple, orange, and red, firm yet delicate skin, ready to burst at the slightest pressure. Oh, it was a beauty, nestled on display screaming, take me home with you and eat me. How could I possibly refuse such an offer?

So, I brought him home and ogled him for a while. He was supple, yet firm to the touch. When cut open, his juices ran, his veining exposed. I felt a sense of deep aching being fulfilled in a way that none has ever been able to match in depth or sensuousness. How did he taste? Like a summer filled with sunshine and warm breezes and thunderstorms and nitrogen rich dirt.

His prolific seed spilled over my cutting board in an array of gelatinous burgundy. How could I possibly waste such potent life force? Scooping them all up, I left them on the windowsill to ferment in a recycled cottage cheese container (Hood, 4%, Large Curd – because I have standards and a reputation to maintain). A film of green and brown appeared within a few days-they were then rinsed and dried, and put into egg crate and hummus beds to sprout. With nearly a quarter of the seeds planted, I stopped, mostly due to the overwhelming thought of whatever could I possibly do with dozens upon dozens of tomato plants.

The Babies

Within a few short weeks, the seeds grew from ova to infancy, slender purple stems and their green wings sprouting and reaching for the sky. 60 of the very best specimen found their home inside of biodegradable pots, the others nibbled on by Luna and me, or given to the birds and squirrels for afternoon tea.

My, how we’ve grown

The early summer sun beat down on my babies, and soon they were ready to move from the nursery to a makeshift raised bed, crafted from a couple of tarps and a few ancient metal shelving units recovered from the basement. With a couple of bags of potting mix, 36 of the very best seedlings were soon nestled in their new beds.

Each morning, the same routine – greet, tousle, water, check for blossoms, and a deep belly breath in through the nose filled with the intoxicating aroma of darkening serrated leaves. Each day, counting and taking note of the delicate yellow flowers forming, developing into a swelling that would soon become fruit. And then it happened.

Jack, just two days old.

I named him Jack. In making my rounds one fine Tyrs-Day morning, he appeared on the west-end side of my tiny garden-on-pavement. Shy and quiet, his blossom had given way to a small bright green bulb. Quickly, more followed – The Twins, Dyna, Aristotle, Myrtle, Hermes, and of course, Sunshine. Then, too many to name. Prolific as they were, this variety was slow to ripen.

Jack

The Twins, ripening on the windowsill

And so, I continued every morning and evening, greeting, rubbing, huffing, telling stories and singing lullabies to my babies, until it was time for them to leave the nest for the next part of their life’s journey. The Twins were devoured immediately, bent over and drooling into my porcelain farmer’s sink. Others given to my beloved friends, save for one.

Jack had a very special road ahead of him: a 17 hour Sunshine State or Bust highway to heaven. So I packed him whole in a Pyrex container. He was placed lovingly into Black Beauty, along with my violin, swords, knives, dog and clothes, and we hauled ass, bagpipes blaring at 3 AM. If there is any proper method to celebrate the birthday of Bilbo Baggins, it is with an adventure.

Jack, in all his ripened glory

Jack Juniors

Jack’s children are nearly two inches tall now, stretching in the eastern window of my new hobbit hole. Someday, they’ll have children of their own, and so on. I love to think about every Jack Junior, how in that seed is contained all of the future tomato plants to be, and also all of its ancestors. I think of life, and death, and delicious tomato laced kisses on hot summer days. It’s the beautiful mystery of our nature and being, ready to burst with all that life to offer.

Not sure what I’m talking about? Well, that’s because you just don’t know Jack.

“It’s just like eating, you have this hole at the top of your body into which you stuffed dead plants and animals regularly and grind them up with these bones that hang down and glug them down through the tube and you ambulate it by falling one direction and catching yourself and you fall the other side and you catch yourself. I mean, how did you get into this weird thing? You know? So, we’ve lost that sense of mystery. Sleep is one of the great mysteries and we love it. So, when you have that sense that instead of being success or failure, it’s like, oh, you get to see this mystery and realize that it’s connected with everything.” -Jack Kornfield

Pat, John, and Edmond Fitzgerald

“I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name, it felt good to be out of the rain, In the desert, you can remember your name, cause there ain’t no one there for to give you no pain”

Wiping his eyes, then hair, then eyes, and hair again “Cheryl, um…, um… Cheryl?”

“Yes Patrick?”

“Um, do you want to dance with me?”

“Of course.”

We have been working since 7 am diligently. Clothing had come off the daily truck and hung on garment racks, awaiting execution. Strip. Unpin. Fluff. Strip. Unpin. Fluff, until all was done and then it was whisked off to the sales floor by severely underpaid staff. Pat’s tiny fingers were red and irritated from the garments, from catching a wayward pin off-guard, from wiping the skin around his eyes over and over again. The one chance to respite, was dancing. It was always to America.

At 5’2″, I’m hardly more than a hobbit. Pat most definitely qualified. Barely reaching five feet, soft, non-imposing. When it was time to dance, he brought out his most upright and gentlemanly posture. I’d always wondered where he had learned to dance – his mother, or a movie perhaps? Regardless, he knew what he was doing. Deep bow, right hand at his belly, left hand behind his back. Upright, extend the right hand to partner across, and we danced. The rhythm was one entirely of his own conjuring, a sway, off kilter. Deliberate, a dip. Deep belly laugh, and a sway, off kilter. Deliberate, a dip. Deep be…

“I’m Batman.”

“Hey Batman, do you want to dance?”

“Dancing, that’s sissy stuff. Why, I’ll…”

“You’ll? Yes?”

(Incoherent mumbling)

“Yes?”

“I’ll send you to the moon!”

John was always the strong and silent type. Few words were needed. The man was always behind the mask. Every now and then I would catch a glimpse of his tender side. A shared pickle with Pat at lunch. A smile out of the corner of his Sicilian eyes, or concern when I’d had a particularly challenging afternoon with one of the sales staff. He never missed a beat, or a day of work, regardless of how he felt. He bore his mother’s constant nagging, especially in public. At his home, it was a different story, and more of the mask was set aside to gain full view and aim of her imposing nature.

“Cheryl, you’ve got a call.”

“The wind in the wires made a tattle tale sound, when the wave broke over the railing, And every man knew, as the captain did too, t’was the witch of November come stealin’ “

It was Edmond. His mother had passed, days ago. I surmised this by the tension in his voice, his insistence on how putrid the scent was in his house, and how she just kept sleeping. Upon arrival at his home, I found him in complete disarray, totally out of character for the bow tie, vest, button down shirt, and khaki slack wearing gent. I brought him to work, got him a cup of extra sweet joe, and called in the disaster.

“You know, you know that song has my name?”

“Edmond, your name has that song.”

“The captain wired in he had water comin’ in, and the good ship and crew was in peril, and later that night when his lights went out of sight, came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald”

Practice

What is your pleasure tonight,
my love,
a haunting little treat
to dance with shadows and echo on walls and dance with pointed feet?
Perhaps a trill will give the thrill to entrance elite?
Or might it be a symphony
To bring them all to bend a knee
And recognize the powers be
Or, make them all retreat?
My arm becomes bow
My fingers, the string
You and I
Have become
One and The Same thing.

Life in the Key of C

“C is for cookies, that’s good enough for me. C is for cookies, that’s good enough for me. C is for cookies, that’s good enough for me, oh, Cookie, Cookie, Cookie starts with C” – Cookie Monster

The place of the crabapple tree has developed into one I am particularly fond of. Notwithstanding its proximity to the heart of Bills Country, the town is in and of itself an amoebas entity, spread and set out like a layer of too thin mozzarella scattered on a frozen Tony’s. Crossing the 90 and 33 alike, it’s sliced out as a good upstate pie should be. Mini neighborhoods of townhouses and apartment complexes, and the ever so exclusive and elusive single family homes. Inside the John & Mary’s, or the Johnny’s, reminiscent odes of a bygone era permeate conversation and aesthetic, in an embrace of community, home, and family.

Take for example, my liquor store. My relationship with alcohol is clearly defined by me knowing the staff on a first name basis and always qualifying for the 20% off VIP.

“Alcohol, my permanent accessory
Alcohol, a party-time necessity
Alcohol, alternative to feeling like yourself
Oh alcohol, I still drink to your health I love you more than I did the week before
I discovered alcohol
Oh alcohol, would you please forgive me?
For while I cannot love myself
I’ll use something else”- Alcohol, Barenaked Ladies

Not that I party. I’ve been out as many times as fingers sprout from my left hand in the year I have been here. I visit twice per month. Payday, naturally. So, on payday last a Deep Eddy Lemon handle landed in my basket. Joan asks, “did ya fine something new?” “Aye,” I answer, “and bigger than I ever imagined.” Her eyes widen, then brighten in a burst of guffaws and tears that indicate a knowing. “Please come back” she says, “I needed that.”

Or Johnny’s. Well, really it’s Jimmy’s. You see Jimmy is always at the register and remembers my name. The walk is short, and I arrive early to observe the staff. They’re a symphony, seamless and rhythmic, ebbing and flowing with the vibration of incoming and fulfilling business. Pie in, pie out, oven check, boxing, wrapping, Ca-Ching, pie out, pie in, oven check, ad infinitum. Jimmy looks up and the smile of recognition spreads – “This one is for C, the one and only.” “You’d better believe it” I reply, and the Greek pie I’ve been salivating for is in my hands and ready for its decimation.

In taking our daily journey around the block, the moon and I always stop to greet P and L. They love Looney. Upon their first introduction, little moon helped herself to L’s Bud Light, and he was thrilled to share with her. Every drive or walk by their abode is met with a smile and a wave, and they return that of my own when the moon and I are front porching the afternoon with a lager from Big Ditch.

There’s an angel who’s visited a few times this winter while I was working, and I know this for I came home to find my driveway plowed and walk shoveled with care. For certain my next door neighbor has a plow, and as a quiet fellow would probably not admit he’d been over nor ever seek the attention of discovery. He passes and waves, the golden dog barks happily, and I return his smile and gesture.

My two bedroom oasis is kept precisely in a way that Sterile Cheryl would approve of- neat and clean, and with only what’s necessary. Necessity has itself taken on new meaning to include lots of art supplies and sheet music and amplifier and instruments and books, and a room just for yoga and iaido.

I’m comfortable. I’m free. And I’m ridiculously blessed. I’m not sure to whom or what I owe my gratitude, but thank you, from my very full heart.

“I knew you before the west was won
And I heard you say the past
Was much more fun
You go your way, I go mine
But I’ll see you next time – It’s all been done
It’s all been done
It’s all been done before” It’s All Been Done -Barenaked Ladies

“Buffalo gal won’t you come out tonight, come out tonight, come out tonight? Buffalo gal won’t you come out tonight and dance by the light of the moon?”

Crysalis

And so I change.

As cycles of the moon

Or celestial positioning

Or seasons

I change

As hands on the clock

Or highway lanes

Or underwear

I change

As cents out of dollars

Or aging faces

Or sex

I change

As some things never

Or others, always

Or weather

I change

Skuld the Valkyrie

Chicken Flavored Cornbread

“Some good food’s in order

For my Port-City Porter

‘Cause he don’t eat

Chicken flavored cornbread

This dog from ‘Carolina’s

A sophisticated diner

‘Cause he don’t eat

Chicken flavored cornbread

And have you ever (ever, ever)

Seen the back of the bag

Don’t it make you gag?

And have you ever (ever, ever)

Seen the ingredient list

Don’t it make you pissed?

‘Cause it’s just

Chicken flavored cornbread

It’s..

Fortified (fortified, fortified, porter-fried)

Chicken flavored cornbread

-Cheryl Sousa

“Chicken Flavored Cornbread”

The recent passing of the greatest percussionist and lyricist of our time has had me stumbling and stuttering.

My phone buzzed late in the evening carrying a message from my boyfriend. A carefully worded message had me wondering if he had lost someone, however he was instead lovingly passing along news he thought I needed to know. I called. The someone was one who was important to me. All at the same time, my heart imploded and exploded, in relief for his family, in dire grief of the loss of Neil Peart.

The drive home is non existent in my memory. I turned on Pandora to Rush-Artist, and began to weep. Sucked through time and space, the magic music made my mourning mood. The first song (Force Ten), the first concert (Counterparts), first t-shirt (bolt and nut), first band to tug at my heart strings. A widening chasm expanded in my chest. No amount of tears could ever fill this boundless ocean scape, though it was given a good faith effort. Even a few weeks later I find myself becoming melancholy and distant and introspective upon hearing the beloved lyrics that have become woven into the fabric of my reality.

As grief moves through my mind, body and spirit, I’m finding that it’s bringing up other unhealed losses that have been begging to be filled. These spaces, carved out carry treasure, instead left barren like forgotten backyard land mines. On the subject of hearts with holes, this is the story of one with a bone at the bottom.

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful dog named Porter. Porter was a Plott Hound mix from a high kill shelter in Whiteville, NC. He was named Porter for the deep, dark brindle color of his coat and, of course, in honor of beer. Plott Hounds are a North American breed, raised to chase down bear and climb trees after them. Porter’s arrival was a surprise from my ex, given just a few days before my birthday, and with my daughter visiting provided the perfect opportunity to add into the golden period’s brownie points. I was head over heels in love with this pup from first sight. He was soft and playful and cuddly and obedient, and as eager to please as any dog could be. House training came quickly, as did his adeptness at any physical activity presented to him. Porter, like his mama, loved a good chase. He was the bane of my ancient German Spitz named Jake, giving the old geezer the only incentive he had to get up on his arthritic legs and chase the growing pup around the house and eat any food before the pup could get to it.

Above all else, Porter loved his frisbee. It was thick and red. If we weren’t outside tossing it, he’d cuddle up with it, chewing and kissing. Around the house with it in his mouth he’d prance, or scrape it across the floor for hours if it was curved side down. We’d toss the disc for hours a day and still he would beg. Porter began growing quite fast, and could keep up with the quickest toss. Into the air he would leap, and would arch his tail and back to spring even higher mid-air. It was a rare sight to see him miss, and that was usually the result of a poor throw. He was so eager for that frisbee, he would have literally allowed his heart to burst chasing it. He’d begrudgingly climb into the Jeep after an evening of play at the park, his mouth full of slobber and blood as the chewed disc would scrape his gums. I’d watch him toss the disc to himself in the back yard, then run after it. His constant scraping of the frisbee against the ground completely tore up the grass in the back yard. And I didn’t care. He was happy.

Porter also loved to do “dog projects”. The house we’d rented in Salina had a sorry excuse for a garage in the back yard. As the structure was not functional for the use of automobiles, it was mainly used for storage. After unpacking from that treacherous move, I’d placed the packing materials in paper bags and stowed them inside. I’d noticed that Porter really liked hanging out in the garage, figuring he appreciated the refuge from the blazing Kansas sun. He liked it so much that we took to referring to it as “Porter’s Garage”. One particularly stifling day I ventured in to get the push mower, to find that Porter had pulled all of the packing materials out of the bags, and filled the bags with dirt from the garage floor. I asked him what he was doing, and he looked up at me with his dirty dog smile and his whipping happy tail, and I knew that I’d never understand anything other than that he was exceptionally proud of himself.

The evening of Porter’s death lays branded in my mind, a scorching portent of things to come. We had just come home from the four hour weekly round trip of picking up my beautiful step children. We were all excited and anxious to be out of the Jeep, and upon venturing inside found the dogs just as excited. Luna, our lab/beagle lowriding velvet beauty was happily milking about. Porter, on the other hand, was exceptionally excited to see “his kids”. As any two year old dog would that hasn’t been neutered, he lifted his leg and sprayed on my stepdaughter. My ex, suddenly infuriated, planted his size 13 into Porter’s stomach. Porter screamed. My ex yelling, he kicked Porter outside, landing another few blows to the dog’s abdomen. The kids were crying and screaming. I was screaming for him to stop. But none of our shrieking could match the ghostly sounds of Porter’s agony. I stayed home with the kids while he took Porter to the emergency vet. With his adeptness of falsehood, he claimed that the hound had something lodged in his stomach. I later called the vet, who confirmed the lie. He claimed they could not save him, that even if they tried the outlook was bleak. We cried. We cried, I threw up, and started crocheting for it was all I could do to keep myself busy.

Porter’s tragic passing was more than just a goodbye to a beloved and faithful hound, one whom I wrote songs about and sung to, (crap the dog had his own playlist for barking out loud). It was also the first time I had ever heard a dog scream, and the first real evidence of my then partner’s violent behavior and hidden drug use. Porter passed as a result of the injuries he sustained on that tragic day. I hugged his cooling body in the cardboard coffin, kissed him and cried.

I’ve come to understand that it was most likely my former partner’s embarrassment and inability to comprehend his responsibility for the violent action that prompted the waterfall of oncoming lies and falsehoods and, inherently, the end of our relationship. I no longer believe that he deliberately caused Porter’s death. I now understand that it was more along the lines of manslaughter. Dogslaughter, if you will. I remember him showing Porter love and affection. I remember abusive moments. I remember a man who talked about growing up with dogs being the only and best friends he had, always feeling like an outcast save for their company. I’ve come to understand that this was the model he used for his relationships with women. And if you weren’t obedient, you were likely to be beaten.

Porter-boy, you salty dog, you chicken flavored cornbread, I miss you. I miss you as much as a girl could ever miss a dog. As much as I miss my childhood friend Darby. I hope you two are running together in fields of gold.

And to my ex, I hope he understands why I told him I’ve forgiven him. I wonder if he remembers what he explained to me about forgiveness? It’s to ensure that I will never be hurt again by the same actions. That I will honor myself and protect myself and everyone I love. It’s a major change in myself to set specific and clear boundaries, and enforce my own convictions. It’s no longer turning the other cheek. It was the beginning to the end of my codependent behavior. It’s the beginning of my empowerment, and of embracing every fear, stepping right into that which I am most afraid, of training myself to let go of everything I feared to lose.

“The pain that your spouse gives you is a gift.” -Treehouse Counseling

Thank you. Thank you for the gift.

“In a dog’s life
A year is really more like seven
And all too soon a canine
Will be chasing cars in doggie heaven

It seems to me
As we make our own few circles ’round the sun
We get it backwards
And our seven years go by like one

Dog years — It’s the season of the itch
Dog years — With every scratch it reappears”

Dog Years – RUSH

“Baby let me be your Salty Dog

Don’t want to be your man at all

Baby, let me be your Salty Dog”

-Mississippi John Hurt

Letting go

Western New York in autumn

black beauty with the heat on and the back windows ajar

for the moon to jettison her head and

let her ears flap carelessly in

the wind.

Western New York in autumn

catches the spray of Niagara on faded denim and

a lumberjack flannel, caring not for

frozen fingers or windblown

tresses.

Western New York in autumn

communes with veins of rivers, mugwort and

anne’s lacey tunneling pathways

through japanese knotweed

forrests.

Western New York in autumn

brews tea and reads books and colors the nights

with pastels and pencils, finding beauty

not only around but also inside

herself.

Western New York in autumn

emerald rosin in hand readies her bow for

playing along with radiohead and rhianna

and rush, no, easy does it, you’ve

got time.

Western New York in autumn

mentally catalogues each tree’s metamorphosis

the most prodigious examples displayed

atop the altared second coming of the

commode.

Western New York in autumn

pays the rent, makes soup, bakes bread, dances

with carmenere and high heels in the

kitchen, walks the dog and is

happy.

Shorty ショート

A few years ago, I was a beginner iaido student, and had been training with a wooden bokken and plastic saya, and on occasion, practicing with Dragonfly. Dragonfly was absolutely gorgeous. It had all of the regal stature of a true Samurai sword. Dragonfly had been loaned to me by the Steel, and while a very kind gesture, it was truly too heavy and long for me to perform saya biki, or practice for any length of time. As we are just about to head to Iaido conference, the Steel presents a lighter iaito of shorter length, and at 2.25 shaku it was more suited to my 5’2″ frame than the 2.6 of Dragonfly.

This is a story of Shorty. There are many stories about Shorty. This is just one.

The first time that Shorty and I practice together is at the iaido conference. It is early spring. We are with 120 odd iaido students, and as I am no kyu, am placed with other beginners while the Steel is practicing with those of 1st kyu and above. My excitement level is through the roof. Here I am surrounded by modern day warriors, aligned in army like grid, all dressed our best in our hippity hot hop hakama, and under the care and direction of 7th and 8th dan instructors from the US and Japan. I make sure to claim a space in the front, as I am one of the shorter ranks, and want to see and hear everything that was happening. It is important that I learn something, that I grow. Practicing and improving my kata have always been very serious business to me, as this was part of the agreement that was made with the Steel – I would learn swordsmanship, and he would learn music, and in learning we would grow together and hopefully as one. Because, it was just us. Right? Because, that was justice.

We begin the first five kata after a brief greeting from the visiting Sensei. Ipponme – Mae, from the front. I’ve got this. I’ve been practicing this one especially over and over in the past months. Mae is a foundational kata, and if I can perform this correctly, the lessons will translate to all of my other kata.

Hajime.

Seiza. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in and rise, toes curl under, step out with the right foot and cut. Shuffle up, bring sword above the head step and cut. O-chiburi, and rise like smoke into a deep iaido stance. Switch legs. Noto, and settle like fog onto left knee. Rise, feet together. Hands off, eyes come up. Back up left, right left ending with feet together.

Shorty feels awkward at my side. She much lighter than Dragonfly, and of a different length. It feels as though I can not reach my imaginary opponent, and I find myself stretching and straining. There is no elegance here. I need to relax. My mind is racing. I had never performed in front of others, separated from the Steel. I feel out of my element, awkward in my too tight obi, and the adrenaline will not quit. Is anyone laughing at me? Am I making mistakes? Doubt. Fear of failure. Embarrassment. Eagerness to please – sure, myself, but I want to make the Steel proud. I am his first student, after all. My efforts and performance reflect on him, and the last thing I want is  to feel was his disappointment on top of my own anxiety and self doubt.

Nihonme – Ushiro, from behind. A kata very similar to Mae, in mirror reverse for the cuts, with a special corkscrew on the right knee. Nervous, I engage with the gross of samurai.

Left foot in a right angle to right, right foot turns to face rear, left becomes parallel to right. Seiza. Breathe in. Breathe out. A quarter breath in, raise to knees, corkscrew, left foot step and cut. Sword above head, shuffle and cut. O-chiburi and rise like smoke. Switch legs. Noto, and sink like fog. Stand, feet together. Hands come off, eyes come up. Back up, left, right, left.

Well, sort of. Drawing the blade and performing half decent saya biki is a challenge, even with a more appropriately sized katana. My technique still not correct or developed, Shorty clumsily tumbles out of the saya, evidence of this shows in blade chasms and wood dust that empties out of my saya after each practice. Even as my strength is developing I do not have control of the tip, and it wobbles with my feeble tenouchi.

I feel awkward, uncomfortable, hazardous, like a thrice broken pinky toe hanging out of the side of a flip flop. “This is just warming up, girl, you’ve got eight more hours of this,” I hear Shorty calling, and little good it does other than encouraging the life muscle from beneath my ribs to pound a deafening and quickening rhythm into my ears. She says, “Ride on top of the pain.”

I can do this.

Sanbonme – Ukenagashi. Receive, parry, and cut. Which side do I turn to? Just breathe, watch the man next to you out of the corner of your eye, and follow. You’ve got this. Left foot 90 degrees with heel to left, right foot steps parallel. Seiza. My kneepad is sliding. Breathe in. Shit-shit-shit-shit this hurts today. Breathe out. Breathe in part way. Eyes then head follows turning to the left as I rise and draw. Stand, right foot at 90 degrees and knees in that ukenegashi feeling (whoa, that ukenagashi feeling, I’ve lost that ukenegashi feeling), Shorty raised above head with strong edge facing opponent, tip down to make a roof over my head. Step back with left foot and cut. Tip of sword to knee, change hand position, weird upside chiburi, noto and settle like fog. Rise like smoke. Smoke. Damn, I could use a big fat bowl right now. I’m settling like a deflated souffle and rising like overproofed dough. Hands come off, eyes up. Small step back to starting position.

I want to puke. All of the tears are held back by a tenuous damn. Shit, I am just no good at this. Even though one of the lessons I’ve learned is that being a beginner is okay, I feel like I need to be more than what I am at the current moment. That there is something wrong with me. I am having trouble remembering the movements. The names of the kata. The parts of the sword. All of these spinning in a tornado that is threatening to rip apart my mind like an abandoned house in the countryside. This is all supposed to make me into a better person. Wait, what is wrong with the person I am right now? Aren’t I a good person? I’m by no means perfect, and I always do my best. Fuck, just try harder, woman.

“You can do this,” says Shorty. Breathe.

Yonhonme – Tsuka-ate.  Oh, how the Steel cannot stand sitting in tatehiza, however I find it rather comfortable. I always feel bad for him as I can see the discomfort in his eyes, jaw, and tight shoulders about his ears. We do so much already but I bet the cobra stretch would work wonders for him. That’s for later, what are you doing? Tsuka-ate. Chuck saw? I always giggle when I hear this as I have never seen the word written. I imagine my brother holding a classic wood saw, smiling maniacally. A little levity now and then never hurts, and laughing inside without showing the smile is proving to become a useful skill. Rise from tatehiza and jab to solar plexus with sword still in scabbard. Slide saya off, turn, and thrust into forearm. Blood. Blood? Blood. Wait, blood is not part of this kata! No, neither is sticking yourself with the pointy end. Sure enough, a good inch of the tip of my brand new sword has created a new opening in my left forearm by the elbow. Thank goodness it is just the tip, and I haven’t gone hilt deep. Um, I need help. I wipe the tip of my blade and resheath it. Covering my wound with my hand, I start navigating the side of the mass of samurai in motion, searching for the Steel. I find a few kind souls to assist, and the Steel comes running, horrified and embarrassed. I am bandaged. Admonished. Congratulated. Encouraged. My head is spinning and light, and I cannot hear words that are said. I instead remember feelings.

The Steel said years later that I would be remembered. That because I continued for the entire day with a damaged arm, that I carry myself with dignity even when I am in immense pain, and that important people would remember me.

He was right.

I tell the lesson of the scar on my arm to anyone who asks. How I was not paying enough attention to what I was doing, and how I was naive to my blade’s length, and I was overexcited and zealous and it caused me to get into some trouble. And that if anyone tells you that size matters not, this is true. We are all the same size, inside. When engaged, though, some feel the need to seem bigger. Whatever. It’s just so childish, gambino.

So, what are some of the lessons from Shorty? I learned that when you have a new blade, it is best to take your time to get to know it really well. You should test your steel in various kata to see how it performs, and while doing so, ask it lots of questions. Where was this blade made? Has it been used before? What do other practitioners think of this blade? Is it like others that I have held? How so? How is it different? Is it balanced? Is it of the correct proportion? Is it hindering or helping my progress? Is it a pleasure or a pain? Is it a tool that I can work with? Can I perform all of the necessary parts of the kata with this blade? Is the blade responding to my actions correctly? Can I perform correct saya biki? Am I allowing my blade to cut the inside of my saya each time I draw/sheathe it? Can I protect the tender parts? Does its furniture fit, or is it loose and wobbly? Where is the tip? And, do I love it? Can I learn to love it? Or, am I settling?

Good questions, Shorty. Good questions.

“Thirty spokes share the wheel’s hub;
It is the center hole that makes it useful.
Shape clay into a vessel;
It is the space within that makes it useful.
Cut doors and windows for a room;
It is the holes which make it useful.
Therefore benefit comes from what is there;
Usefulness from what is not there.”

Lau Tsu, Tao Te Ching

Shavasana (Death)

“Who needs sleep?
well you’re never gonna get it
Who needs sleep?
tell me what’s that for
Who needs sleep?
be happy with what you’re getting
There’s a guy who’s been awake
since the Second World War”

-Who Needs Sleep, BNL

What is another sleepless night? Wrapped in my fluffy cocoon at La Villa Strangiato, I am as snug as a doodlebug in a rug. The Landlord still prefers to keep the thermostat down, of which I am most appreciative. A hot room leads always to discomfort, and around here there is always a moose blanket or down comforter or a soft, warm, little ball of fur to snug up against. Cetri Zine and Ben Adryl, I thank you. Going with the flow means to accept all situations you can do absolutely nothing about, and this includes The Reynolds genome – small amount of sleep, early riser. The only remedy for this I have ever found was inhaling massive amounts of what my buddy from SC would refer to as “pine tree”, and such as it is, there is none to be discovered here.

I lay on my back, without pillow, arms by my sides and heels shoulder width apart. At times, I am laughing and crying with Mrs Maisel, and at others with the Outlander. Midge understands, and Jamie is the perfect human known to man. Even amidst the Carolina Cherokees and the unforgiving landscape he manages to find gratitude in the smallest things – a fish caught, the moonshine ripening, the daily battle for life, the daughter that he had never met traveling 200 years into the past to join him and her mother and welcoming her with open arms, and joyfully pulverizing her would-be aggressor. You know, the small stuff.

What I have come to understand is the truth in the small stuff. Exactly what it is in this life I appreciate and find value in.

A visit from one of my children.

Sunrises and sunsets.

The taste of a tart clementine.

Kisses from a beloved pet.

Unconditional love from my family.

A little job.

Safety.

For the snow to shovel in the morning.

For chances to spread kindness.

Playing my violin as often as I like and learning a new little song.

Morning yoga basking the beauty of the Shire.

True, loyal, lifelong friends.

For all I have loved and then lost.

For my imperfections.

Life. Breathing. In. Out. Weaving consciousness through every cell of my body.

Gratitude readily pours out of my eyes. As I have taken to wearing mascara again and not wiping tears, my face is morosely marked with the streams of release. Gratitude for these lovely things. Gratitude for lessons learned. Gratitude for the alchemy of the heart. Gratitude for the pain and suffering, welcoming it with open arms. Opportunities of being regularly challenge, with my response of “take me, and let me get swept away”. I feel every need for forgiveness and every transgression as the day it occurred.

Asking for the forgiveness of others.

Asking for the forgiveness of myself.

Offering my forgiveness to others.

https://jackkornfield.com/forgiveness-meditation/

It is through this divine forgiveness that I feel comfort. There are those who are no longer around me whose forgiveness I ask of and extend to, to the best of my ability every day. Time makes this easier, and laying in the complete vulnerability of Shavasana offers my being to experience this healing to its most intense capacity.

So on death? This is a process of letting go, as forgiveness in and of itself is a death, is it not? Of righteousness? Of vindication? Of shame. My dragonflies in amber are a reminder of the beauty in change, and of the hope of what remains to be seen. It is only through acceptance and understanding of death can we fully appreciate life.

So to sleep, perchance to dream. Or, not. Maybe someday.

Tonight, dolce far niente.

“I know it’s not my fault I did my best
God knows this heart of mine could use a rest

What more and more I find the dreams I left behind
Are somehow too real to replace

Last night I didn’t get to sleep at all
The sleeping pill I took was just a waste of time”

I couldn’t close my eyes ’cause you were on my mind”

-(Last Night) I Didn’t Get Any Sleep At All, The 5th Dimension

Why, Why? C.

why

were the very same hands

that prevented her fall

and gave her pleasure

wrapped around her silken neck

a force choke

to end it all

where was her prince, her love

and her happily ever after

was it the battle of

A monster on a ship

who thought he was never enough to

love, love, love

the C dragon

or was it dirty paws she thought

never would come clean

not a beauty, but herself a beast

hideous and so full of shame that

she was blind to all of those warning signs

a wizard with a prize he refused to share

yet cheapened himself with the d, the witch, her sister, and dorothy

and killed her little dog too

for as long as she and all of the flying monkeys did his bidding,

he thought he was safe behind the curtain of lies

however, she was

the seeker of truth

a musician with a symphony who

among cacophony, chaos, and anxiety

conducted practice with dignity and a broken body

with the burden of shame shackled and tied to her waist

down the rabbit hole Alice sank to find

truth, it was there the whole time

the best way to hide something was in plain sight

she turned over her paws and released her shame

re-living it in the most horrible, gruesome, uncontrollable way

a locomotive on that hot rail

at the end of the wizard’s party, laying on the floor

maiden, mother and crone called to her

she screamed

get out of my mind

a low roar

as the tower fell

she saw the light

finally learning to improvise

the red queen beheaded the backwards talking white knight

with new focus, she mounted mirrors, mirrors on the wall

then Cinderella finally saw how fair she was

and the only thing he loved her for

a cunt

breaking the charm, she shattered the glass slippers

toppled the loving cup

and finally brought balance to the force

clicking barefoot heels together, declared

there’s no place like home

no longer a slave

for she was and is a temple

nevermore to worship

the prince of darkness

I See Red (Barchetta)

Snow has a way of changing in quality though the winter months. As the season progresses and more salt, sand, and brigid-knows-what is churned into the texture of cookie dough batter, before the eggs and flour. What December lacked in flakes, January delivered with renewed ferocity, with February in the running for close second. Miniature mountain ranges are heaped heavily on the sides of the vehicle paths, which grow smaller with each storm, with plow drivers who either seem to forget that our latitude is farther north than the Mason-Dixon line, or else live in fear of the Landlord’s scathing reports when his mailbox is pulverized yet another time.

It is past Imbolg, and the bi-polar weather of the northeast has become more manic than depressive. Days like today (above 10 degrees Fahrenheit) feel like spring, and I don not more than my bright pink shell and woolly Fäustlinge to join the out-of-doors. There are but few in the neighborhood who share in this cold weather delight: Happy Adams with the most lovely red haystack, waving hello from atop his Polaris, and oh what fun it would be to ride the haystack or the Polaris, I care not which; The Walking Woman, bundled from head to toe in so much an effort to keep warm as to not be carried off by the ferocious wind; and of course, Annie, with her long chapped cheeks and icicles clinging to her horse beard.

Any excuse to get out of La Villa Strangiato these days has me jumping behind the wheel of the aka shibikku and pressing the pedal to the metal. There is a certain sense of pride and pleasure derived from driving a standard transmission out of principle. There will never be a vehicle that I cannot hop behind the wheel and take control over, which means when the Rapture finally takes place I will have my pick of vehicles to drive around in. Won’t the Neighbors next door be dispirited to sacrifice their beautiful virgin M3 to us pagans? The Nimbus 2000 can stay in the garage.

“Wind
In my hair
Shifting and drifting
Mechanical music
Adrenaline surge”

While I have found beauty everywhere life has brought me, the charm of the Northeast never fails to draw me back. The trees. The rolling hillsides. The clusters of antique houses and architecture. The ocean, rivers, and lakes. It is the most beautiful place I have found to just take a drive to nowhere, although you are never far from anywhere. Lately I have spent a lot of time remembering who I was before I started batting at the major curve balls. I was a hippie. I smoked Camel lights. I skipped school and made out with boys in parked cars and a beautiful girl in a basement bedroom. I was an accomplished musician and respected among my peers. I was a vegetarian and humanitarian. I loved art and music, and foreign language, and reading between four to eight books per week. I despised traditional schooling. And, I loved driving. How fortunate I was to be allowed to drive the Silver Bullet, an ’88 Mazda 323, 5 speed. This car cranked, a challenge to drive not only for the transmission but also for the lack of power assisted steering. The scent inside was of Simple Green, as that was the only way to properly clean the ash tray and conceal my indulgence lest someone catch another reason to ground me for a month or two. Cradled by the driver’s seat, I took to the main streets and back roads like Dale Earnhardt on a bender, seat belt fastened, Rock 101 or 100.7 blaring, windows rolled down (and I mean, actually rolled), the wind tangling my shoulder length permed hair. Rather than watch the tachometer, I listened to the engine’s whine to inform me when to switch gears. I picked up my girl several times and took her on these rides, and as an adult now wonder if that on these times she was frightened to death. I felt powerful, in control, and manifesting my own destiny.

With recent cause to celebrate, I fire up that willing engine, awaiting the roar. Nothing.  I scream, “Vroooom!” and back the little red devil out of the driveway. Today, I set off to just drive, breathing in the cold country air, feeling alive and free and one with all 180 horses carrying the sleigh, navigating the ice and snowbanks as obstacles to my course. I flow with every curve, listening for the cue from the engine when to change from one gear to the next. The local classic rock station starts pumping feel good tunes, and I start singing along.

Keep on whispering in my ear, tell me all the things that I want to hear, ’cause it’s true. That’s what I like about you.

This song suddenly seems fucked up, as if the band name “Romantics” was just a con to lure in unsuspecting hopefuls with the insinuation of fairy-tale like love and candlelit dinners. You like it when I tell you all the things you want to hear? You like that I promise you are the only one for me? And where is that in return? I feel my emotion transferring through the stick and gas pedal into the transmission, and the engine is willingly responding, save this time it is roaring in harmony with rage to the misogyny and disrespect and suppression of rights that is quickly becoming the example in this country. I definitely would have appreciated the sincerity, fidelity, and guardianship of my heart that I have promised over and over and never have received in return. Taking a sharp left, Red and I climb a steep winding hill, which empties out on another high meadow that overlooks the shire-side. It’s just another fucked up love song. It’s time to pull a lazy Susan, turn things around and head home, as I’ve come to yet another dead end.

And that’s it.

What you liked about me? I held you tight.

I told you you were the only one, and I wanted to come over tonight.

What you liked about me? I really know how to dance.

When I go up, down, jump around, I’m thinking about true romance.

What you liked about me, I kept you warm at night

Never wanted to let me go, you know I made you feel alright.

I kept on whispering in your ear, and told you all the things you wanted to hear

It’s true. That’s what you liked about me.

 

I have been valued not because someone wanted to show me how much they loved me, but for what I could do for them. I’ve allowed this to happen over and over and over again. This is not love. This is slavery. I will not be owned. I will not be controlled. I will not be lied to and manipulated. I will not obey. I will not be the little bird kept in a cage.

I let up on the civic, and pull to the side of the road amidst the trees. Breathe, says the Sliph. Jumping out, I run through the nearby field, snow gracing the tops of my boots with the fur, and tears running icicles down my cheeks. Everything is tinged red, those rose colored glasses stained with the crimson of my rage. “Where is the justice?” I ask, falling to my hands and knees, planting my face to cool in the snow. The shock clears my vision, and I sit back on my heels in seiza to find a beautiful woman standing before me.

She is white, with soft eyes and peaceful mouth. I grew up knowing her as Mary, although I understand her now as mother to us all and peace incarnate. Someone who understood and accepted with grace the presence of God growing within her. Breathe, I hear again, though this time it is the voice of Lucy calling. Inhaling to four, holding for four, exhaling for four, rest at the bottom for four. The rhythm is soothing, and the landscape regains its upside-right orientation. She is looking upon me with love and compassion, treasuring the moment.

I am already honored, loved, respected, and treated with dignity and compassion. I am  cherished by my friends and family. I am worthy of being the only one and worthy of trust. Anyone who thinks otherwise can fuck off.

Thanking her, I return to La Villa much more gently than I had set out. These modern four cylinders were never meant to work so hard, anyways. The Landlord has the garage set up with tennis balls on strings, to provide the perfect stopping point for the vehicle, and listening for the gentle boop on the windshield, bid my ride a rest for the evening. The birches are swaying and paper bark flapping in the icy breeze this evening, with another storm threatening to call out the plows, shovels, and snowblower. It’s okay, ladies, I announce. Spring is coming. For now, let’s not just feel the cold, let’s revel in it.

“You know it gets to us all
The pain that is learning
And the rain that is burning”

-Red Lenses, Rush

 

Ko Ken Chi Ai

When I explain to friends my love of Kendo, most typically respond with incredulity, skepticism, or at the very least mild bemusement. The reason for this response still eludes me, however I have learned to smile and accept that some are just not ready to listen or understand how this art has contributed to the change that has happened inside of me. Kendo is The Way “Do” of the Sword “Ken”. The way? The way to what? The way to love, naturally. Ko Ken Chi Ai means Knowing Love/Friendship by Crossing Swords.

To master the art of Kendo, we must master Shikai – “Shi” meaning “four”, and “Kai” meaning “prohibition”, so the four prohibitions of the way. Shikai is also known as the four sicknesses of Kendo. These sicknesses or prohibitions are those that we impose on ourselves that limit our growth not only in the art and practice of Kendo, but also in our daily lives living by the way of loving kindness. These four sicknesses are known as kyo-ku-gi-waku.

“Kyo” is surprise. What happens when I am surprised? Physically, I tense up, usually my pectorals, biceps, trapesius, rhomboid and other smaller neck muscles, protection of my vital organs. I inhale sharply for maximum oxygenation. My eyes widen to take in more light. Surprise is the state of being taken unaware. In Kendo, we need to understand that our partner can and may use all methods of technique to break our kamae (guard) or seme (pressure) to enter a strike. I should not be surprised when my partner’s eyes graze kote (the wrist), and they instead strike men (the head), or do (the gut). I should not be surprised when my shinnai is pushed to the side to create an opening. If my kamae and seme are strong, if I am using my entire field of vision to recognize a tightening of a particular muscle or look in the eyes to understand the whole picture, I will not be surprised when the strike comes. The same is true in loving yourself. It is important to not be taken by surprise. You have time. Wait for it. Are you feeling the need to defend yourself? Are you constantly under attack? Are you able to be relaxed, or do you feel the constant tensing of surprise and need to protect that which is vital? Perhaps you may rethink to whom you are sharing your love with. When my neck and back muscles are tight, and I am protecting my vitals, I get migraine headaches, the kind that induce paralysis, vomiting, lost days of work. Even the anticipation of a headache can bring one on, and has in the past developed a dependence on daily marijuana use or overuse of ibuprofin. As anticipation is the opposite of surprise, in kendo we must neither be in a state of anticipation or surprise. To rely on either is a crutch that inhibits our ability to take correct action when the opening occurs. In love, are we preparing for a blow, or are we reacting rather than responding to one? Herein lies the lesson of neither preparing for nor being surprised by anything. Love accepts all in stride, and does not anticipate being harmed. If either of these two are present, we are not ready to give or receive love, and we will have difficulty taking correct action.

“Ku” is fear. What happens to me when I am living in fear? My blood pressure rises, and my heart beats very fast. My breath becomes quick and shallow, limiting full oxygenation of the blood or expulsion of carbon dioxide. My vision narrows, quite often resulting in tunnel vision or hallucination. My temperature rises, and as I am not a particularly sweaty bastard, I tend to get overheated and have on occasion have become light headed and passed out from the experience. Fear is the aversion of discomfort. What is it that we typically fear? In Kendo, I was afraid of getting hurt physically. I understood the concept that if everyone was acting correctly, I would not get hurt, and I was reminded often to trust my armor. Armor in Kendo consists of a helmet (Men), gloves (Kote), Chestplate (do), tare (a skirt that while not valid for points does protect tender vitals), and a small plate at the base of the front of the Men that protects the throat (Tsuki). It did not matter that I was surrounded in what I lovingly referred to as my snowsuit. The strikes that I received regularly were hard enough that I would have a headache and trouble concentrating for days, or I would need to take a week off of playing violin to recover my wrist. There was one time where my teacher was demonstrating what it might be like to have someone very inexperienced and overzealous keiko with me, and it resulted in a shinnai being shoved forcefully up the right sleeve of my gi. The first time, I turned and cursed, and became very fearful. I took a second to calm myself, and tried to control my fear by taking a breath. I set my kamae once again, determined to finished the match despite the surge of adrenaline that consumed my body. When we began again, the same technique was used, resulting in a burn and enormous bruise on my arm, but worse, on my heart. I retreated backwards, and wanting to insist on distance, attempted to strike do. I fell, landing on my backside, all the while enduring the public humiliation from the reprimand from my teacher. I was shamed. I was so fearful of disappointing my teacher and my fellow classmates, yet was in enough pain from the injury to my arm that I could not control the flow of tears or the shaking of my body. I did my very best to gain my composure, and was told that my lesson for the day was completed. The old me might not have ever gone back to class, but I learned something. In order to not be in fear of something or someone, I needed to face them calmly, directly, and purposefully. I went back to class with a renewed vigor and determination to show my teacher and my fellow students that I was not afraid to get hurt, and I was not afraid of being shamed or reprimanded or corrected. This was the beginning of my practice of enshrouding myself with emotional armor. Before putting on my bogu, I mentally put on each piece of indigo by reciting this mantra:

Steady and strengthen and open my mind.

Steady and strengthen and open my spirit.

Steady and strengthen and open my heart.

Steady and strengthen and make true my sword.

The same is true in love. In order to proceed in love without fear, we must understand our own minds, know the shape of our heart, have confidence in the integrity of our spirit, and be confident in the truth our intent. We must love ourselves and have the mental armor so that we do not allow ourselves to be thrashed about, however be willing to create openings to allow our partner to come close. We must also allow ourselves to open to draw close to our partner. If we cannot do these things and love without fear, then we are not ready to share or experience the true joy of love. If there is a part of ourselves that we wish to keep armor over, perhaps we should ask ourselves what sort of strike we are preparing for, what is it that we are so unwilling to let go of that we need to be in emotional armor at all times.

“Gi” is doubt. What happens to me when I am feeling doubt? I experience anxiety. Anxiety typically manifests in my gut. I am either perpetually loose or tight, and have constant tummy troubles. It appears as a band around my diaphragm, and I cannot take a full belly breath as if I am wearing a tight belt or size too small jeans. In doubt, my mind is in a constant state of indecision and panic. I cannot focus on one thing for any  amount of time. In Kendo, doubt leads to indecision and inaction. When coming out of sankyo, your body should flow fluidly, balanced, ready to assume correct kamae and seme. If you are in doubt, you will be off balanced and shaky, unable to take a proper deep belly breath. In doubt, you will view your partner instead as an opponent. In doubt, you will be unable to make a decision on a target and therefore unable to enter into a correct strike. What happens when we are in doubt in love? We cannot breathe. In music, it is important to be able to play the rests so that you stay in time with other musicians and so that the intent of the melody or harmony is expressed correctly. If in love, we cannot breathe or cannot play the rests, we become anxious of that which we may lose. We cannot trust in what the next step might be and it leads to grasping. We develop aversion to change, and cannot exhibit grace or dignity. In doubt, we cannot willingly accept any challenge that may come our way, for fear of failure. In doubt, we lose confidence in the ability for others to accept and love that which in ourselves is profane. In doubt, we are prone to aversion to the truth, so much so that it manifests itself in the flesh. In doubt, we accept the lies we tell ourselves as the truth, and learn to accept the lies of others as the truth as well. Love cannot be based on doubt. Love must be based on trust and truth. If I feel like I cannot tell my partner the truth about myself, it may be a combination of toxic shame and aversion of my own truth and fear of acceptance, or it may also be a fear of exploitation or having truths used as a weapon to flog your partner with. When it becomes the sum of all of these, it creates a toxicity that no seed of love can ever grow in. Doubt or trust is the seed in which love is sewn in.

“Waku” is confusion, or being disturbed. What happens to me when I am feeling confusion? My brow is constantly wrinkled. I cannot complete a thought or make a quick decision. The tiny muscles in my face tense. I have a hard time remembering details and sequence. I lose focus, and have to take a lot of time to ensure I have the facts straight. I question my own sanity when I am told one thing and then another, and then see actions of yet another. In Kendo, being confused leads to indecision. If I cannot come to a decision about what to do next, I can never do what comes next. Am I sitting there waiting for an opening, or am I creating one? Am I allowing my partner’s stance, gutterals, shinnai taps, or stern look to intimidate me? Or, am I taking them in no consequence to the matter at hand, which is to deliver a correct strike? In the last practice I had with my teacher, I delivered a quick feather strike to men. My classmate, the romantic young warrior, did not want to believe that it was a correct strike, however my teacher did confirm that it was correct and valid ippon. I remember evaluating what was different that day, as I can remember only a choice few times where I had gained ippon on my teacher. The first, we were practicing outside on a stage with cement floors. I remember the cool and smooth touch to my feet, the scent of the fresh air and feel of the ever constant breeze. I remember my teacher’s excitement that we were practicing at the park. I felt relaxed and at ease, as I always feel when I can spend any amount of time out of doors. I feigned a men strike, and struck do. If I remember anything, it was the incredulity on my partner’s face, his mixture of pride and love and bewilderment and determination, and his verbal promise to never let that happen again. I was in my own state of bewilderment – a mixture of pride in my progress, and the hopes that my teacher would be thrilled and encourage my progress and repetition of the maneuver until I could repeat it flawlessly. I took the words instead as a challenge, and in practice, attempted to recreate that scenario only to have it thwarted every time. I was not discouraged, however I was confused as to why it was that my partner would not want that particular opening to be claimed.

To create an opening for do in Kendo kata, one must raise the shinnai over the head. This exposes the heart. Quite possibly, the way to the heart is the do in Ken-do.

In relation to Ko Ken Chi Ai, to know love, we must be willing to cure ourselves of all of the sicknesses or prohibitions to love. To not allow fear, doubt, confusion or surprise master our actions, and to not deliberately cause or to allow harm to others by using these tactics to manipulate or control. To know love, we must be willing to be courageous in allowing joy to permeate our hearts, understanding that all things change, all things end, all things die, and all things can begin again.

There are very few people in this world that I would consider my friend. People whom I will discard the emotional armor for any day of the week and allow them to peer into the depths of my soul. I approach each potential friendship with an open mind, open heart, and open spirit, but have learned that I may need better kamae and seme when it comes to those who may try to assume they are my opponent. In Kendo, the distance to which you place yourself in proportion to your partner is known as maai. This is the distance from which you can make a correct strike without risking a strike from your opponent. For short people like me, the maai I assume is typically closer to my partner. To reach the top of a head of someone 6’3″, I need to get in pretty close, however for someone closer to my height, I can step back a little, and relax the angle of my shinnai, trusting in the power of my left leg to launch my body the distance it needs to travel. What I have learned is that kamae, seme, and maai all have to coordinate together to have correct distance to my partner, and that I must adjust my own maai, taking also into consideration that of my partner’s.

I can love someone closely, and I can love someone from a distance. I can love someone intimately and intensely, and I can love someone by wishing them well and understanding that their suffering is not much different than my own, for we are all one. In the sister art of iaido, we learn that there is no opponent other than ourselves. This is true in loving our lives, and this is true in a life of love.

Doumo arigatou, gozaimashita.

 

The Horse Part 5 – And Now for Something Completely Different

“God didn’t make little green apples
And it don’t rain in Indianapolis
In the summertime
And when my self is feeling low
I think about her face aglow
To ease my troubled mind”

-Little Green Apples, Bobby Russell

This morning starts out like any other where I’ve had less than three hours of sleep. Both groggy and awake, the promise of black gold beckons my tired bones out of bed. It’s easy to be lazy when there are few commitments, no schedule. The kitchen is vacant save for a pair of cat loafs struggling to fit together into one small size kitty koozy, just oversized loaves of fluffy, sneeze-producing bread. Grabbing my favorite moose mug and filling it to just short of the brim, I swirl in some locally made eggnog. I’m learning to take delight in as many little indulgences and pleasures as I can find, and if this thick creamy treat was available year round, it would become a regular part of my morning ritual. Dark and bitter just isn’t my style these days. Eggnog – it’s what’s for breakfast.

No sign of the Landlord this morning, save a note on the door proclaiming his own morning routine. With stimulant already surging through my veins, flight or flight begins to rage, and I decide the treadmill needs to go for a run. Grabbing my laptop, I head downstairs to the cat lair, complete with pool table, workshop, and a lifetime’s collection of tools and decorations of times gone by. The Landlord spent hours down here vacuuming to ease my allergic response. Why? Because, love does. Screen now securely mounted to the human hamster wheel, I set forth on a journey that ends up being short lived. A mile in, and it’s not just the Foo Fighters screaming. I succumb to the will of my knees – pounding out 10 minute miles will wait for another day, even though I’m not like the others, and I will never surrender. My energy is still high, so I do as James Taylor suggests. Walk on, walking man. Walk down that lonesome road, all by yourself.

Donning jacket, hat and mittens, I stuff a granny smith into my pocket. The last of the carrots was used for an Annie cake, of which I finished off with great satisfaction a few days before. I announce I’m off for a walk, to no one in particular, and set off into the icy wind. It’s a bit of a hike to Annie’s, but I am no stranger to long walks. The brisk air nips at my cheeks and nose. With a good pace underfoot, I quickly become accustomed, smiling and enjoying myself. The Valkyrie is smiling – this is her world. Frozen deer tracks in the mud, icicles on fallen pussy willow branches over natural springs, kitty paw prints in snowbanks, crinkle ice on the roadside. It is heaven indeed. If there can be both cold and hot in hell, I suppose heaven can also be that way, as perception creates the enjoyment or torture of any situation.

There’s rhythm and timing in a walk. Something about the dimension of trees passing as if they’re backdrops on a multidimensional stage, shifting and ethereal, that beckons me off the road as I pass. It has been too long since I’ve communed with my brothers and sisters. The birch, ash, evergreen, pine, willow, oak, maple, and sumac all sing a unique song that can be heard as whispers in their branches. They’ve been laughing since my return, and who could blame them? I’ve grown. No longer a sapling, my true form is appearing, with sinuous branches and early spring splendor. What happens when you cross a paper birch with a willow? I can’t wait to find out, and neither can they. Faces appear inside of crevices, hollows, knots, and spurs; watchful eyes and surprised gasps, howling warnings and placid tranquil smiles all tell stories of their pasts, or impending futures. Crunching underfoot, I’ve wandered off the road onto gravel. Best to keep my eyes ahead, as the true prize is awaiting only moments away.

Annie is in the corral by the barn today, towards the rear fence. She seems shy, uncertain, not quite the animated beast of norm. Proceeding with caution, “Annie. Annie girl. I love you, Annie girl.” She lifts her head to direct her gaze. There is no question when the horse is giving you the stare-down. I stop by the front corner of the fence to catch my breath. It’s cold enough to snatch the wind out of your lungs, but to my surprise I’ve not yet felt the thief. A few minutes pass, and Annie returns to pretending to look for grass to munch in the mud. Pulling the apple out of my pocket, I take a quick bite, and show it to her, taking a quick chomp and making all sorts of delicious slurping noises. She has got to know I am enjoying this. I had once fed her a macintosh, but have no idea how a tart apple will taste to this equine epicure. No response. I decide to take a few more paces to the center of the fence, where we have normally been feeding her from, call her name, and greet her with my customary low bow. She mirrors, nodding her head to the ground and lifting, and begins inching towards me. More mouthing and slurping the apple, juice dripping down my chin. Breaking off a small piece, I explain to her what this treat is, and toss it under the fence. She immediately eats it, and looks me in the eye, as close as she dare bring her face to the fence. I hear, “more?” Delighted, I share the rest of the apple with her without missing a beat, removing the seeds with my teeth and tongue, taking the second to last bite myself.

With the last sliver, I explain, “that’s all”, however she still squares her snout with my own nose. “You’re welcome.” Bow. Bow returned. We lock gazes at the end of our picnic, and it is without doubt that we have made a connection, new and sweet, a little yellow flower of delight with pink horse hot lips. I back away slowly, and head home.

With any animal that is suffering the effects of trauma, it is important to pull them out of their routine with something different to focus on. Treats, new colors, new smells, sights, temperatures, anything that will not have an association with the event. Over time, the old familiar favorites can make their way back into the routine, however it easily may take many years before the pain fades into memory.

That’s okay Annie. All we have is time. And I’m putting apples in the carrot cake.

“Time stand still
I’m not looking back
But I want to look around me now
Time stands still
See more of the people
And the places that surround me now”

Time Stand Still – RUSH

The Horse’s Ass – Part 4

“Come let me love you
Let me give my life to you
Let me drown in your laughter
Let me die in your arms
Let me lay down beside you
Let me always be with you
Come let me love you
Come love me again”

Annie’s Song, John Denver

There are some things that you cannot un-see. There are some things that happen that are so magical that you cannot believe your eyes. There are some experiences where you wonder if you’ve been put under a spell, and you question reality as you know it.

This is one of the better ones.

Annie is a white horse, with a long blonde mane, peanut butter cup saucer eyes, and a swooshy full tail that has me hoping she will donate a few strands for my next violin bow rehairing. I am no horse expert by any means, but my best guess is that she is a white Carmague, an  ancient breed originating somewhere in the south of France. You’d never know it though – there is nothing rude about this hors d’oeuvre. I imagine her with a silver spiral horn grown from her third eye, swathing sparkly rainbows through the end of it, leaving a pathway of sunshine and happiness where ever she trots. She is beautiful.

Each day, the Landlord and I trot up the hilly, winding roads in the 4WD closed in sleigh, making our way to Annie. She recognizes the vehicle immediately, and is trotting up to the fence before we can venture out. A few carrots are prepared by the Landlord, and he insists that I feed her. I always try over the fence first. Some days she takes it, and some not, but it is always worth a try. Today, she takes one. Hearing the snap of another carrot worries her, and she steps back cautiously. This whole while I am cooing and telling her how much I love her, and how beautiful she is. Her head sways from left to right, then she points right at my third eye with her imaginary horn. From somewhere inside of me, the vision extending my carroted hand under fence comes to mind, and I immediately comply. If this is divine intervention or horse whispering, then Mister Ed must have been her distant relative.

Annie finishes all of the treats with her slow horse crunch, brushes her horse lips across my hand one more time, searching for carrot remnants, and we both stand up. I express my gratitude and love for her, and give her a deep genuflect as I have taken to doing each time we part. With the ground so wet this day, my boots are thick with field mud. Stomping them out on the road, I decide to do a little dance for Annie, in a sort of horsey cloppy way. My heart leaped when she extended the equine kiss to my fingers, and I thought I should let her know.

And then, it happened.

Annie let out a whinny as I have never heard from a mare. Long and musical, deeply punctuated and accented with varying rhythms and tones, it was as if the whole string of horses ensemble played a song of enchantment. Strutting slowly around in a circle, her tail raised straight up, and she waved it back and forth like a flag, baring that which is rarely seen to the human eye, and after several languid paces, looked back over her shoulder. Equus magazine describes this behavior. ‘In the presence of stallions, mares in heat will lift their tails up and to one side–sort of a “come hither” motion to indicate sexual receptiveness.’ From vivapets.com “When they carry their tails up, they are expressing pleasure; notice that horses play and run around with their tails up.”

The Landlord laughed full-bellied, I’ll never know until I talk with a certified horse whisperer, but my general impression is that Annie was loving life, and felt a great deal of pleasure from being fed carrots, friendship, love, and respect. Maybe, she just thinks I am a sexy beast.

Me too, Annie.

“The measure of a life is a measure of love and respect
So hard to earn, so easily burned
In the fullness of time
A garden to nurture and protect”

The Garden – RUSH

Today’s visit had a slightly more regal tone than that of yesterday’s pageantry. When the Landlord and I pulled up, Annie made her way from the far side of the field where was peacefully grazing. I picked out my usual spot at the fence; the Landlord about 10 yards to my right. From the distance it appeared that she would end up somewhere between the two of us. To my surprise, she chose to walk directly up to me, and put her nose over the fence for a brief moment. I fed all of her carrots to her under the fence, and with each nibble she brushed my fingers with her sweet pucker, and even stole a few kisses between carrot offerings. As she eats, I remind her of how lovely she is, comment on her clean teeth and long white eyelashes. All carrots aside, I stand out of my crouch, bestow my thanks, and bow deeply for the gift of her presence. As I straighten, I see Annie bow her head and briefly close her eyes, then lift it again.

*rubs eyes*

It seems unbelievable that such a beast could mimic my behavior. After all, it’s just an animal. Right?

Time will tell what separates us from the animals.

“Time stand still
I’m not looking back
But I want to look around me now
Time stands still
See more of the people
And the places that surround me now”

Time Stand Still – RUSH

The Horse, PTSDeux

I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

The first time I was diagnosed with this condition was after a significant car accident that rattled my brain and strangled my brain stem, causing cerebral spinal fluid to back down my spinal cord and break it apart from the inside. The physical trauma from this left a myriad of physical anomalies that I have learned to adapt and work with the new normal, however the psychological impact of the traumatic car accident and undergoing neural surgery.

In the aftermath of the Audi-Mirage catastrophe, and had a very hard time getting into a vehicle, much less riding long distance in one. Walking into the surgical center and stripping off my clothes was as a walk of death, the scrub-green mile. I lay on a table while an anesthesiologist with meat hooks for hands attempted to insert an arterial blood pressure line in my arm. I smiled at him – it must have looked menacing, for he left and let someone else finish the deed. The next thing I knew, I was in ICU, throwing up said coffee into a pan, my head screaming with every heave. With no pain medication to dull, I needed to find another way to get through. I let go of my consciousness and drifted for 24 hours – not sleep, just letting go, hovering outside of my body so I did not have to be in the torrent of the river of agony, I could just sit next to it and observe it. Each time a nurse came over to check my vitals, I was sucked back in to the deluge in a paper cup. I had the ability to draw myself back out, but with lack of food or sleep, it became more difficult each time. At long last, they wheeled my broken body to a private room without any machines that went “blip”. The silence made it impossible to come out of my stupor, as I could not identify even one thing I could hear, nor make any sound of my own. It hurt too much to even cry.

By my bedside appeared my mother. Not my earthly mother, but Gaia, or Mary, or the Popess. Her robes were as celeste and cerulean, a mix of the cloudless sky above the plains and the deepest stormy ocean waters. Her presence was calming and soothing, and I lost myself in awe of her glory. She was not there to be worshiped – she was there to comfort and relieve my suffering. Her image is as clear in my mind today as it was that day almost 17 years ago.

I spent 6 months in intense physical of therapy before I could get into a car again without having an attack. In fact, I purchased the best possible vehicle I could manage to afford at the time that had Whiplash Protection Seating. In 2002, this was a new technology that appeared only on high end vehicles such as Lexus, etc.

“Yes, I used to be a real wild child,
But now I am a Volvo-driving soccer mom” – Everclear

I became a Volvo S40 Driving Soccer Mom, much to my ex’s chagrin.. While the lyrics of the song are not exactly accurate, the spirit was. My personality started to change after this. I took a physically demanding job to pay for it, starting part time, and working my way up the ladder to Regional Operations Manager running five stores in two states. This took 4 years. The vehicle acted as a placebo. It gave the illusion of safety while I worked on needing to check my mirrors 30 times a minute, and pacing myself at stoplights. The next year, I trained for a 10 mile race in three months, having never run anywhere except to the bathroom and to get the mail, and succeeded to run it in 1:45. The physically demanding job turned into my ticket out of a loveless marriage with narcissus, and the key to living independently for the first time in my life.

During the time frame when we lived at the base of the Lonely Mountain, our family had adopted a beautiful fluffer named Jake. Jake was a German Spitz, which is like a Pomeranian but with a foxier face. He was the most beautiful little floof that you could want.

When we brought him home, we found out something very surprising about Jake. He was petrified of the broom. I would go to sweep in the kitchen, and little Jork would dust-mop himself under a bed or the couch, shaking like a leaf. It was quite obvious that someone had swept him aside vigorously by his skittish behavior. I started slowly with him – laying down the broom in the center of the kitchen, and sitting with Jake in the next room barely in view of the broom, petting and cooing and giving him jerky treats. We repeated this ritual every day. Some days, Jake would see the broom and bolt. I would go and comfort him, and give him treats and all the love he could stand. Some days he just paced around. Eventually, we worked our way to where he would nose through the dirt I was sweeping up, looking for treats, and I could touch him with the bristles with no flinching.

Jake passed in the summer of 2016, his golden years spent being pissed off by having to share them with another gorgeous pup. I am not sure if he ever lost memory of the trauma, but he certainly learned to trust again after years of tender loving care from someone unrelated to his injury, wielding the weapon of it. This is a lesson I take to heart.

In October of this year, I was strangled. Strangled by the man who was supposed to be my Steel against Steel, in an act of rage and hatred. My trachea was crushed to the point that I think about the incident each and every time I swallow. Sometimes, I am yanked out of reality back into the incident hard. The panic attacks were severe at first. I was on. I was awake. A beloved friend and teacher came to help, and after poking the base of my neck, I became a puddle. That’s not the water they’re talking about being like. For nearly a month and a half I slept not more than one or two hours a night, slipping unexpectedly back and forth between the incident and reality, more there than here. Sleep is a bit easier these days, averaging four or five seductive hours per day, and I say per day for I take sleep as often and when it strikes. It is not striking tonight, but I’ve learned to accept and be calm and trust that sleep will come in due time. I’ve not felt safe, wanted to run, wanted to hide like the little bunny rabbit I can be. I’ve awoken to the feeling of his hand crushing my throat, heard voices and tapping and rustling, lived through technicolor nightmares. I see the future and the past and the present all at once. The countryside has appeared to me as a Van Gogh painting. My ancestors are calling – they are earth, and wind, and water. I commune with trees. Talk with cats. Caw at the crows. Have theological debates with houseplants.

“Basic elemental
Instinct to survive
Stirs the higher passions
Thrill to be alive

Alternating currents
In a tidewater surge
Rational resistance
To an unwise urge”

-RUSH, Prime Mover

It has not been all bad. I see those who are zombies and those who are awake – angels and demons alike. I am learning to discern those who are on different planes of awakening. I am bringing balance to the Force. Left brain meets right, and they become best friends. My violin skills have dramatically improved, and I am working on a new concerto. This is the true concerto of a warrior – one who can memorize eight full pages of music, dynamic, tempo, movement, key change, and work with another just as equally important player. I’m taking my time with this one. I have figured out who the best friends in the universe are. I have cut everything and everyone unnecessary or unhealthy out of my life.  I am exercising, eating what I want when I want, drinking as much wine as the Landlord can stock, and with the assistance of some Cetirizine HCL, developing a lovely relationship with two sweet puddy-tats. I have regular counseling with an amazing therapist, and am practicing some EDMR I remembered from the last time I was in physical therapy. I have goals I have set myself to attain, and work daily at as many as I can, trying to beat my own expectations, even if it is just by the count of one. No one can be harder on me than I can, however now I have learned that it is okay to be gentle with myself.

I figure, if the nice young men in their pretty white coats come to take me away someday, life will not be that much different. I do hope they allow visitors tho. I have a feeling I might be in good company.

“I remember, I remember when I lost my mind
There was something so pleasant about that place
Even your emotions have an echo in so much space

And when you’re out there, without care
Yeah I was out of touch
But it wasn’t because I didn’t know enough
I just knew too much

Does that make me crazy? Possibly..”

Crazy – Gnarls Barkley

Back to Annie. I know that with time Annie will learn to trust and welcome the touch of the Landlord once again, and will not run off at the sound of the snapping carrot. It’s so new though, still. We have to be slow and gentle teaching her. One day at a time, dear Annie. This horse can have all the carrots she can eat, and I’m going to give them to her.

PTSD can come from any severely traumatic experience – childhood trauma, being abused and cheated on, one too many hits to the snake. I recall the Steel recanting a few of his own traumatic stories, and while I will not publicly speculate, I will imagine that he has had a similar course of both psychological and physical trauma that have altered his personality. There was a reason he did not kill me on that day. He said to me, something/someone inside of him had ordered him to let me go.

Whoever or whatever that was, thank you for standing up for me. Thank you for protecting me, when no one else would. That was a brave voice. That was the voice of a hero. It takes powerful love to take correct action. Agápe love.

Joy of Being

Winter. Although the calendar marks the official beginning of winter as December 21, the truth is that season of the ice and snow is already long upon us. The Valkyrie in me is pleased, and while she would charge out the door wearing little other than a sports bra and running pants if she must, the Buddha reminds her to be gentle to herself and put on her winter coat, thick woolen mittens, soft gray hat, and boots. There will be no running this day.

Taking my daily walk about the property, I stop at the burn pile and take measure of how many pumpkin seeds remain from the squash I had ripped apart with my bare hands the week before. And no, it sounds violent, but violence and violins don’t mix. This cold shock therapy was to ease the arthritic swelling that has discovered its way into my right thumb, in part due to many hours per day studying my violin, and also my rediscovery of the Joy of Writing. If one is to hold a bow in the Franco-Belgian tradition, one needs to have flexibility in the oppose-able joint, hence, I plunged my my right up to my wrist in this frozen gourd, exposing the seed for the crows that have been visiting daily. It seems that some seed has been eaten, although not all, leading me to believe they may be looking for some other sort of offering.

Each day, the wind and ice brings down more limbs from various trees around the property. Oak, maple (wouldn’t Dirk, Lerxst, and Pratt be pleased?), evergreen, tulip, and even a pine, all shedding the unnecessary, the broken, the diseased, and would make spring yard work quite cumbersome if it is not tended regularly. So I pace – 27, 27, 27. Counting off the steps and softening my focus on the grass, the twigs and sticks leap out in stark contrast, and I soon find a large armful. Down to the burn pile I go, musing over the pyre that will blaze come spring. For now, rabbits and birds seek shelter in its trimmings, and the last thing I want is to chase any living creature out of its home. The work passes quickly. I suspect the Landlord has been out and about already this morning – he is quite fond of sticks these days.

With no more work to be done, it is time for pleasure. I’ve taken a liking to spend time each day meditating on something from nature. My gaze shifts to the tulip tree. Liriodendron Tulipifera is known also as yellow poplar, although why it feels the need to assume a pseudonym is beyond me. One would think that being named Indiana’s State Tree would be enough to gain infamy in the woodland community, but possibly that is it. When you set roots in a foreign land, best keep your popularity under wraps. The imposing timber is nearly 20 yards in height, its branches stretching out widely to form  a canopy, the bane of the Landlord’s existence until it shed the remainder of its thick foliage.

As trees only whisper, getting in close was the best way to start my meditation. Next to tree pose, savasana has always been my favorite. Laying comfortably on the frozen ground, careful to tuck my jacket under my buttocks so as not to wake the Valkyrie, I inhale – what can you teach me – and exhale – I am willing to learn. My thoughts go to the branches. The stark contrast of charcoal shadow against overcast mid afternoon sky is breathtaking. As a small child, I spend many days in this pose, not knowing it had a name other than “laying down on the ground”, getting lost in the tangle of branches above. Starting at the trunk, I follow them out to the tip where the petrifications of this past summer’s pastoral plumage present perfectly preserved pods. Alliteration aside, I notice a pattern in the branches. Starting strong and thick, none of these protrusions are straight. In fact, each one of them has a bend or twist of one degree or another. The branch scars, and appears as the knobby tight flesh over a seated kata knee. The wood then takes a different direction; not every branch is the same. Applying what I understand of plants, new growth will lean towards the direction and strength of the sun, given factors such as wind, rain, time of year, and the amount of time spent in the shade. Each branch has many of these angles, and the twists and turn makeup the web of sky branches.  Each branch at the end proudly purports upright tulip husks on countless split slender branches – a reminder of the beauty that will present in spring.

Understanding brings the universe inverted, and instead of laying on the earth, the earth is spinning under me while centripetal force and gravity holds my body on so I do not fling off into space. Each of us is part of the same tree. We grow. We have trauma or events in our lives that cause scarring and change. This will heal, and as time passes will not look or seem so raw; instead, becomes part of our beauty. As we can no longer grow in that direction, we must seek light and warmth with a balance of shelter. We must accept and be ready to get wet, and while the winds may curve our path, we do not have to stand against or be completely blown away by them. We need not be discouraged when changes come. We accept the lessons, we do not grasp onto the original path. We allow ourselves opportunity to learn new things, to be beginners regardless of the stage of life we are in, while neither being to firm nor too flexible. In the end, there is beauty. Beauty that lasts seasons, into our winter years, only to be borne again in the lives we touch when springtime comes again. There is always a rainbow after the rain.

This is the Joy of Being. I love you, tulip.

On Being a Valkyrie

Adapted from the Sword of Truth, Terry Goodkind.

1. Be smart. Give yourself enough time to find evidence and focus. You can find the bullshit, fallacy, and inconsistency in anything. You can dive down the rabbit hole and find all of the roots of lies and the source of all truth. Pandora’s box floods open. You always find what you look for. Seek truth and you will find it. You can handle the truth.
2. The greatest good can result from the worst situations. Carbon under pressure becomes diamonds.
3. Reason rules passion. Consult your heart, but allow your mind to make the final decision.
4. Forgiveness is important. Seek forgiveness from all you may have harmed, deliberately or otherwise. It is not enough to ask forgiveness from God. You must ask forgiveness from your friends, brothers, sisters, parents, coworkers, spouse, etc. Understand that seeking forgiveness from your loved ones is about them being able to move on, and is an act of loving kindness. Repent with a humble heart. Take responsibility for your actions – own up to your mistakes. Vow to yourself to not harm another in the same way ever again. Hold yourself accountable. There is magic in sincerity and desire to change for the better. It is in this that our hearts and minds are changed. When you repent, mean it. Change yourself.
5. Mind what people do. Mind what people say. Mind what people do and say, and do not discredit either.
6. Mind over heart over matter. This means, what matters most is Correct Thought. Then Correct Intent. Then Correct Action. Make sure that all of your actions have been first consulted with your mind and heart, and that your mind and heart agree that the action is correct. Head over Heart over Pelvis.
7. Life is the present. Tomorrow is the future and full of possibility. Learn the lessons from your past and do not repeat it.
8. Accept and learn to embrace mistakes and failures with humility. Failures teach us valuable lessons and allow us to grow into better humans. Ask yourself, what is this teaching me? How can I be better from this.
9. If you find a contradiction, this means that you have discovered an inconsistency that has not yet been explained. Listen, ask questions, take notes. It may be that there is information still needed to complete the picture. Keep asking important questions. Keep asking Who, What, Where, When, Why, and How. The truth will present itself on a platter.
10. Willfully turning aside from the truth is treason to one’s self. Lying to others is treason to others, especially in a relationship. Get to know yourself before trying to get to know someone else. Be honest with yourself. Everyone needs therapy. We’re all broke, even if you think you are not, you are. Especially those that think they are not broke. And ladies and gents, you can’t fix each other – this is what trained professionals are. Please, be kind to one another.
11. Knowledge can be dangerous, powerful, and useful. Be careful whom you open up to. Gain as much knowledge as you can. Work hard. Don’t cheat. Cheating is a lie!
12. You can try to destroy those who speak the truth, but you cannot destroy the truth itself.
13. Agape first always. There are four kinds of love – Storge—empathy bond. Philia—friend bond. Eros—erotic bond. Agape—unconditional “God” love. The greatest of these is Agape, which is the love for all. Storge, Philia and Eros are for specific people. Know the difference and be specific, deliberate, and correct with your intent.
14. Love yourself first, then love others as you do yourself. Love is not hearts, rainbows, flowers, and worship of the ego. Challenge, motivation, discipline, repentance, forgiveness, structure, firm resolve for correct action. This is Agape.
15. Be the change you wish to see in the world. This does not mean force change on the world to construct it to how your whims. This means, change yourself into something that will make the world a better place for everyone else. If you are better, the world will be too.
16. If your mind is open, you can learn from anyone and anything. Even manure can nurture a garden, if applied correctly. Keep this in mind when the shit hits the fan.
17. Hard work pays off.
18. No house can be built on a shaky foundation.
19. Be brave. Be bold.
20. Let go.

Aurora Borealis

“We come from the land of the ice and snow
From the midnight sun, where the hot springs flow
The hammer of the gods
We’ll drive our ships to new lands
To fight the horde, and sing and cry
Valhalla, I am coming!”

-Led Zeppelin, Immigrant (Toby’s) Song

“There is no set standard for what makes a warrior. You don’t have to be able to throw people over your shoulder or endure a fifty mile forced march. Being a warrior means living with courage and integrity, facing difficulties with dignity, and finding joy even in sorrow.”  -Jennifer Lawler, Dojo Wisdom

“Put the oxygen mask on yourself first, then assist those around you.” -What’s her name, some airline, between somewhere over the rainbow and the dirty water.

Another day in the autumn of the shire. The misty mountains grow thick with with rising fog from the river valley, adding weight to the airy clouds above. Hanging in mid air, they neither move nor shift with the chill breeze on the hillside, giving the backdrop of this heaven slice an otherworldly appearance, as if to appear on a stage, hand-painted on canvas with 103 of its mates. Crisp morning air invigorating my already hyperactive nature, I plunge in headfirst, pulling a knit gray hat over my ears.

Not much raking or stick picking to be done today, I meander my way around the property to the berberis thunbergii. My thoughts return to the day before, high on maple pulling. I had found four woollybear caterpillars. Pyrrharctia isabella, or isabella tiger moth, is a farmer’s friend for predicting the oncoming winter weather. The little worms have 13 segments, either black or brown. One had 5 brown, the others 7 or 8. While there is not specific scientific data supporting the caterpillar’s ability to predict weather, only evidence to support that it reflects how long the former winter was. With the air getting colder by the day, it seems that it might be sooner rather than later that this impending cold season sets upon us for a long one. The landlord is taking measure of this poisonous betty, and I recognize the look of intent – take it out. In a flash, I return from the shed with barrow, shears, branch snips, axe, spade, garden shovel and two pairs of thick leather gloves. He clips, I trim and minimize, until the visible portion of the venomous berry is all but hidden from the road. 

Aye, the stump. He looks, a bit dismayed, at the size and scope of this project, and starts with the axe into the center of the core. It’s a root ball, knotted and twisted with years of growth. We make no progress, the axe clunking in the middle of the gnarled knot of venomous wood. I suggest we take a softer route, unearthing it, rather than hacking it to pieces. An eyebrow raises in my direction, and I nod in return. Wrapping my gloved hands around the handle of the agricultural pick-axe, I sink one of the ends into the earth surrounding – it slides in with ease – and I pull. Sink, pull. Sink, pull. Sink, pull.

sinking, pulling, unearthing root

venomous invader of my soil

pervasive penetration, unearth 

The song echoing in my ears as through the halls of Darrowdelf, it only stops with a thunk at the thick thread of root shoot. Inside, it is the color of bile, and the scent is worse. I breathe through my mouth to keep breakfast in, and swallow carefully. The contents of my stomach are NOT coming up today, I think, but this root is. I follow each offshoot patiently, careful to not break the vine-like meandering. The landlord is quick to just yank it out and be done and set it into the burn pile. He is of a different mind on the root – the same one that has been cursing the tulip tree to hurry up and drop it’s leaves, and wondering why the pin oak isn’t just following suit, going so far as to shake the branches to test the tactile strength of the petiole. Hatchet, axe, and saw is the answer, but sometimes old oaks need to hang out with the thorny red fruit to learn, and vice versa. I won’t let him hurt himself on this one. He might have allowed it to grow, but he was not the one who planted it here, and he was certainly not the one in denial of it’s existence as it matured. He just saw a red berried plant because that is all he was knew or was allowed to see.

Squirrel.

These roots run in every direction, as do my thoughts at any give moment. With each trowel of this gargantuan anchor, I rock the heart to and fro, discerning from the resistance which way to continue digging. Some roots are smaller and thinner, others are thicker than my thumb and run underneath the driveway, and are forked. This focking bush really wanted to live! I am going to need something with a little more oomph than an axe to get under the pavement. A few roots have snapped in the process, and the landlord has just about had it with my painstaking removal. He does not understand – his age, attention and memory are wearing on him this day. I stand up to stretch my back, and he grabs the root-ball and heaves up. One root left, and it snaps off. I elicit an audible “Fuck” and start digging. This one goes under the Chokeberry nearby, and is wrapped around one of it’s larger roots. The landlord grabs the spade, I tell him no. Let’s not hurt this other plant. Not any more than we have to. I dig, and start to unearth the root, he tells me to stand back, and cuts it with the spade as high up as the vile root goes. The red plant will heal, he says. It has stronger roots. He mentions that there is another stump that was from something similar in the back behind the garage.

Lead me to it, I say.

We haul the barrow full down to the burn pile, and heap it onto the ever growing pile, then back up the hill to this hideous ball, four times the size of the one in front. I can see that he is already weary, but my vigor of pulling out the first has me full of energy for the next. He obliges. This plant on the south side had grown so large, that the wind had blown it clear through the back window of the garage. With the garden spade, I carefully start removing dirt from around this dried stump. With it’s branches long since cut off, this heart was just drying up in the setting autumn sun, but it was nothing that melting snow and spring rains wouldn’t awaken. Dig. Toss. Dig. Toss. Shovelful after shovelful. Something starts screaming, starting from C1 through L4, tense, crushing, pulling, twisting. I grimace, but this is a look some have come to understand as, she’s overdone it again. Fuck, am I stubborn. The Landlord is kind, mentions that he has pretty much had it for one day (he means five or six), and as far as he was concerned it could wait until spring when he could hook up the lawn mower to it with a chain and pull it down the hill. Some ice and snow may just be what is needed to get this now dormant root to wither and shrivel.

I oblige.

The next morning, I awake to two inches of snow covering the landscape. I can barely see the party tree, much less the hillside of the Proudfoots, Hornblowers, Maggots or Hoggs. Thank you, Jesus! The landlord states he is getting too old for this shit, but I giggle and stuff my still broken foot into my shoe. I go outside with sleepy hair to check on the rosebush. The snow crunches softly underfoot. Buds are glistening with ice even in the morning overcast, and the open flowers are frosted in crystals, but still pliant and supple inside, deep dark red as freshly drawn blood. I give the fullest blossom an eskimo kiss, parting the petals with my nose, and it kisses back, velvety and sweet. Ah, you are gorgeous, dear flower. Your scent will fill my sinuses all day. I catch the pile out of the corner of my eye that we left behind the garage. The mound looks like chocolate cake mix covered with icing, but I know better. Nothing more I can do today, except shovel off the walkways and make sure no one slips. That’s okay, I love the cold. I can go outside in below zero temperatures without a jacket, even if the clouds are covering the sun, and still smile and be happy.  I think again of the woollybears that I had nestled under leaves and at the bottoms of trees. I hope they are alseep. Next year’s crop will produce nearly all brown bears.

It’s gonna be a doosie. Hold my beer.

“Winter is Coming” – Ned Stark

“And ride with us young bonny lass
With the angels of the night.
Crack wind clatter flesh rein bite
On an out-size unicorn.
Rough-shod winging sky blue flight
On a cold wind to Valhalla.
And join with us please
Valkyrie maidens cry
Above the cold wind to Valhalla.
Breakfast with the gods. Night angels serve
With ice-bound majesty.

Frozen flaking fish raw nerve
In a cup of silver liquid fire.
Moon jet brave beam split ceiling swerve
And light the old Valhalla.
Come join with us please
Valkyrie maidens cry
Above the cold wind to Valhalla.
The heroes rest upon the sighs
Of Thor’s trusty hand maidens.
Midnight lonely whisper cries,
‘We’re getting a bit short on heroes lately.’
Sword snap fright white pale goodbyes
In the desolation of Valhalla.
And join with us please
Valkyrie maidens ride
Empty-handed on the cold wind to Valhalla.”

Jethro Tull, Cold Wind to Valhalla