The Training Kicks in

It’s an ordinary day at the plasma center. Folks hurrying in seeking shelter from the cold, lining up for screening. Skeleton crew of workers working diligently, sticking and adjusting, sampling and freezing. With our main cog wound up, the center runs as smoothly as the finest Swiss clockwork. We churn out liter after liter of the liquid gold, like Rumplestiltskin with straw, and price paid happily into the pockets of donors.

On days like this, I make myself as readily available as possible for everyone. It’s not the job I signed up for, but rather the one I enjoy best, which is helping and giving to others with my time and energy. I chat with folks in line, crack jokes, provide insight and training, take copious mental notes of items to address before our pending audit, and observe everything, everywhere, all at once.

“Mother Fucking Shit” he yells, and it echoes not only to the rear of the center, but to the recesses of repressed memories of times past.

Breathe, says the Sliph.

In front of me is a regular. Big K. And at 6’6” and 260, I mean big. Usually friendly and chattery and flirty, today there is a different air about him. “Please, not in the center” I say. This is not the first time I have had to correct Big K on his vernacular, and while I also can have a mouth foul enough to embarrass a seasoned sailor, I don’t bring it to public establishments. Big K knows the rules, and immediately apologizes. I say, “no worries, just know for next time” and bustle off to respond to a need on the donor floor. As I finish, I see that Big K has followed me. I pass and say, “have you been screened?”, thinking that he was looking for a waiting seat. No, he says, “I just want you to know that I’m sorry. “ I reassure him it’s okay, but feel something otherwise as butterflies begin beating against the lining of my stomach. Growing up, I was always under the impression that butterflies in the stomach in the presence of someone of the opposite sex meant chemistry. Having unlearned this through years of therapy, I now understand this as my body-brain telling me that danger is afoot and to take caution. So I walk away from Big K, busying myself with stocking supplies and cleaning beds.

“You’re so busy now”. Big K’s voice calls over music and conversations and the hum of pheresis, and there is a change in my body. Hairs are standing up. Pupils open so wide it feels they are being stretched. Heart rate and breath increase, and I’m so uncomfortable that I need to get out of the public eye. As I’m leaving the floor, I’m called by another donor regarding a woman who has been the bathroom for over an hour, and spend the next 20 minutes with the security guard ensuring her safety. Having this purpose helps calm my nerves. Until it happens.

I’m finishing up with the guard, and suddenly I see Big K. He’s feet away from me and says my name. He takes a few steps and before I know it he is mere inches away, in a posture that I have only ever previously experienced from an intimate partner. My 63 inches looking up to his 78, and his tower starts to bend his head over me- Look, I’m sorry okay..

And this is where the training kicks in.

I immediately take two large steps and back away, finding my maai. With a strong kiai, I raise my invisible shinnai. “I find your behavior intimidating and threatening. Stay away. “ I see the look in his eyes. He knows he has gone about this the wrong way. “You need to get out of here.”And then to my utter surprise, he bows his head and walks away leaving the building. Not that his exit was a surprise, but that I was in a situation where I felt vulnerable and threatened, and instead of melting into a puddle, I stood my ground and took control of my safety. That it was effortless and second nature.

In my early days of Kendo, I was taught to trust my armor, and learned to put it on so that the shinnai that were repeatedly split over my men did not hurt my head. I spent countless hours studying the safe distance to keep from my opponent. I’ve learned that maai also translates to establishing clear boundaries and that I don’t have to make myself smaller than I already am. I’ve also learned that establishing maai also involves vulnerability, and trusting my emotional armor.

I hope Big K comes back. I want to talk with him. I know he was trying to make amends, and hopefully he learned something about personal space. And I want to thank him, for practicing with me.

Fog in the Shire

How would you design the city of the future?

If there was a big bang to start the universe, like any great symphony, there is bound to be one at the end.

Or so thinks the Landlord.

I was unsure what to write for this prompt, and of short spare time with my more frequent visits to my old apartment (this was where I used to live) to keep the Landlord company and perhaps in good spirit.

Differentiating temperatures between the river water and the surrounding air I will each season generate its own early morning fog, thick, billowing, and reluctant to move until it’s burned off by the rising sun.

Fog prior to sunrise

Similar is the fog that hinders the progression of thoughts in the mind of the Landlord these days, so I bring all the sunshine I can muster and the Moon as well so his days and nights are well lit around me.

More fog, and a fall pyre.

After one of the many trips of the moon around the property to drop an asteroid, we head back in to find the Landlord about to load laundry into the machine. He jokingly says “what’s your name again?” And I can see in his eyes that for a moment, he was not really joking.

On our way back from lunch, his mate stopped at the store. While waiting in the car, this prompt crossed my view, and so I asked, “Hey Pop, how would you design the city of the future?” He says, “that’s a good question. I’d say they would all >>makes explosion sound << and will be gone in a blink.” I told him, he’s probably right.

I’m not so sure how I would design the city of the future, however I know it’s going to be without my Pop. And that hurts.

The $15,000 Dog

What would you do for someone you loved with your whole heart? What would you risk to save someone who was in the hands of a real life monster?

What if that someone was your dog?

It was May 2019. Still working through the grips of shock, despair, bewilderment, and losing my mind, I managed to work and save up the funds for something that needed to manifest as quickly as I could allow it. Divorce. If you’ve been following, then it’s no surprise what a huge fan I am of disintegration of legal marital entanglement, and if this is your first time, welcome to the mosaic of my mind. I scraped together enough cash to hire a lawyer and book a flight, and soon enough was sitting in the courtroom awaiting the case to be called. It was a toss whether the person I thought was my partner would present, however I should have known that this midwestern man would always rise to the occasion to court a fine woman, and he took his seat without disruption.

Now backtrack several months prior, in the time between leaving the Temple of Doom and the Middle of Nowhere, I left Luna with someone whom I thought was my friend – turns out this was just another concubine of the monster, and poor Luna was soon in his hands once again.

Back to court. If it were not for the manner of dress, I would not have recognized him. Just another role played, an actor on the stage, but then are we not all such? Our case was called, and because there was a disagreement in the property division, we stepped out with my counsel for a chat. To every point I had drafted, he had a counter argument. We both became heated and gratefully counsel redirected. At this point, I knew that the only way for me to win, was to lose. I was asked if I had a possible solution, and then, that moment I realized that the property did not matter anymore. There was nothing that I had done without for the past seven months, that I couldn’t live without. Except one thing. Or one someone rather. So in the moment, I said that I would be willing to give him the full value of the property in question, a total of $30,000 joined, and in return, all I would want is my dog, Luna.

I could see the rage that filled the monster’s eyes. The demands came for joint custody and visitation for his estranged children, whom at this point even he was not visiting regularly. We went back into the courtroom, where the judge mentioned that it takes a special situation to want to give up all of your belongings for a dog, and because of that, I was awarded sole custody of Luna.

Are there things I lost that would still like to have? My viola, some things that my daughter made me when she was small. However the loss of these things was trivial compared to saving the life of one lab/beagle golden dog.

“Make your own luck, Luna“- A song, brought to you by the letter P.

Lunadunadoo

Soggy Bottom Trail

The last time I hit this trail was over a year ago. Late autumn 2021, if memory serves. The ground of the first leg of the trail was firm enough, however towards the middle was akin to the bog of eternal stench – murky, wet, dank, and mud so thick it suctioned the boots clear off my feet. At one point I slipped into a mudhole that left me soaked to mid thigh, and with a filthy and happy Luna as my tug boat, managed to hoist myself onto a fallen tree, giving thanks for it’s final resting place being in such a useful spot.

So naturally going into the woods today, I was a bit skeptical when Luna led us down this trail again. Given the general lack of precipitation this winter, I figured it would not be quite so marshy, and promised her that we would turn back before she took a bath in skunk-weed water.

The trail was firm and dry for the most part. Moss covered rocks and tree roots along with a thick pine needle carpet made our passage quiet and soft, and allowed for appreciation of squirrels thumping and bluejays cawing.

A little broom moss cover

I once wondered why, now I don’t

At some point during the past year, some thoughtful human planked over the soggiest parts of the trail, making for a delightfully dry passage.

A little forest bridge

Towards the end of the trail, we came across what appeared to be some new mudholes. As fallen branches and aged planks were plentiful, I decided to add to the betterment of the path.

Before

And after

Another hole filled

We filled several of these before coming to one last thoughtfully made bridge. Stepping on, I noticed this dying tree.

The hole

It is said of children who were survivors of trauma will often draw trees with holes in them. I thought of the holes in my own heart, from a parent who would never accept my witchy omnisexual self, to being belt-beaten by the other parent until I admitted to some wrongdoing that I never did. How those memories and that pain is still there, like mudpits if I let myself step into them. However, I have learned how to build bridges over them, and I carry the younger version of myself on my back, and tell her she never has to worry about that again, that I’m here to protect and forge the way for her now. Her and Luna both.

We made it out of Soggy Bottom only slightly damp. Luna was cautious on the hike back to the car, curiously sniffing and pausing, looking up for reassurance. I gave her some strokes and coos of reassurance, tho I felt it as well. We were being watched.

Gebo

I’ve spotted deer here in the past, though no droppings or other sign to indicate their presence today. We did find a few matted down needle beds where bambi had spent a night or two, however these were cold.

And then, this.

Luna, examining the evidence

There had been a scuffle. Given the amount wind we’ve experienced lately, this had to have occurred recently. Tufts of white and light tan fur, soft, sweet smelling. Oh brother, where art thou? I thanked Wile E. for whatever sort of beast he had run off, and made a mental note to check for expiration on my bear spray.

Maybe your friends think I’m just a stranger
My face, you’ll never see no more
But there is one promise that is given
I’ll meet you on God’s golden shore

-Man of Constant Sorrow, Soggy Bottom Boys

Say Something Ketchuppy

Back in the early 2000s, Heinz had a contest to gather as many snarky sayings as the public could muster, and the grand prize was a lump of cash and your phrase prominently displayed on every diner bottle of ketchup from here to Satanta.

Being an avid creative and ADD compulsive, I would hyper focus on any venture, if but for a little while. This contest was right up my alley, so I spent an afternoon generating snarky sayings, writing them along with my address on index cards, lovingly wrapping them in #6 envelopes, and with careful handwriting, addressing and adhering postage stamps in the upper right hand corner. I generated at least thirty of the little bastards, one more clever than the next, with snarky phrases like “We cut the mustard” and “Elopes with Fries”, and the one that I thought would take the cake “Because no one can pronounce Worcestershire”

I brought all of these envelopes over to the neighborhood postal center, where I would later have a 13 year career, and sent them off with no expectation, just the satisfaction of an afternoon and a book or two of stamps well spent.

Some months later, I received an unexpected parcel in the mail. This was before online ordering was mainstream, so I was pretty surprised to find a white plastic mailing bag with something soft inside. I brought it up to my apartment, and opened it to find a freshly printed T Shirt, and a letter.

Say Something Ketchuppy

Receiving this letter was a thrill, as I had forgotten all about entering the contest. I opened up the white t shirt, to find these words printed bold black and all caps inside of the classic Heinz label shape

WANTED IN FIFTY STATES

Now it is something to be wanted. Doesn’t everyone want to be wanted? Feel wanted? Have someone say they want you? I mean, at least one person doing the wanting would suffice. It is another thing when you don’t feel wanted, or are left wanting. Some people are wanted because they have done harm to others and karma sits there licking it’s lips, ready to swallow the pariah in a single gulp. And I suppose it is one thing to be wanted in one state. It’s yet another to be wanted in two. And still yet another thing to be wanted in three states.

But until you’re wanted in all 50, you’re not even on the level with ketchup.

Isn’t ketchup just spectacular?

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

Surrender

I am working on obtaining my YTT 200. This is a yoga wheel that I created for the full Blood moon on 10 OCT 22.

I did not sleep last night. I slogged through my workday, felt weak and tired and drained. It was very tempting to crawl into my fresh sheets and take a nap. Then, I saw Luna, in the yoga room, on her mat (yes she has her own) stretching and rolling on her back and mimicking yoga poses I routinely practice. I could not help but to get into my comfort clothes and join her. She reminded me that all I had to do was show up, and the rest would take care of itself. I left the mat feeling peaceful and energized and strong. My form was not perfect in some poses, and in others it was the best I could remember. We can’t always be perfect, but sometimes we can surprise ourselves if we just surrender to the process.
So here I am.
I surrender.🏳

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

Indiana Slim

“I think this table is not even.”

“No, Pop. I just can’t shoot pool.”

“Here, let me get my level.”

“Would you just shoot?”

He smiles and, for a moment, his two tone eyes cast determination in my direction. Cyan chalk particles shave from the tip of his cue, and blowing away the excess, he makes note of the angle for the three. A fire is lit. He is no longer in his seventies, living in a peaceful country hillside. He is barely twenty, and a buck-twenty, just ashore off the destroyer, whites crisp, looking for a beer and to drive them home.

“This is a move by Minnesota Fatts,” and with a lightning jab, causes the cueball to leap over the 11, sinking ball 6 in the left center pocket. It clacks and ambles down the ramp, finding rest with the previous five that met their match to his sharpshooting. I learned earlier that day that when he was younger, he enjoyed country western music, so I set the stage to create some memories.

As for me, I’ll remember the sadness
Shown in the eyes of the man
If we meet someday, you can bet I would say
That it’s me, Mr. Shorty, your friend

-Marty Robbins

For someone who cannot remember the contents of his previous dinner plate, he sure can croon every lyric to Mister Shorty without a beat. He continues singing as the next three are cradled into their pockets. Knowing his level of skill, when he has a near hit, I know it is a deliberate move to allow me a turn. I’m praised when I make a shot, and mourned with when my best efforts go down the drain. I’m encouraged to go at it again, and told I got this one. Sure enough, I do, unintentionally. If I have to describe what happened, it could only be that I felt right, with no what if or question. Another attempt, again I feel right, and the ball rolls to its hole.

Later on in the afternoon, we are outside enjoying the breeze flowing in the cool August air. When Pop speaks, his eyes and expressions are filled with lessons, if you’re willing to listen and learn.

He is fighting the war of the dandelions, the teraxacum officinale meeting the business end of a hoe hundreds of times per day. He describes his methodology: one day traversing the lawn horizontally; the next on the diagonal. “It all depends on my point of view, how many I find. Some days there are hundreds, and others, there are few. If I change my view even just slightly, I see so much more that is out there. I just have to keep at it.”

I have to agree with you, Indiana Slim.

When you were young, and your heart was an open book

You used to say live and let live

You know you did, you know you did, you know you did

But if this ever changing world which we live in makes you give in and cry

Say live and let die.

-Paul McCartney & Wings

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.

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.

Vital Signs

It’s another glorious day for plasma collection. Densely packed evergreens at the top of the hill behind 235 are painted black against a kaleidoscope bursting above the rising sun, and the autumn air meets my lungs like a forest spring; refreshing, crisp, and sweet with the scent of receding chlorophyll, fungi, lake effect air, and when the breeze is just right, Cheerios. Gratitude envelops the steam of my exhale, evaporating into the morning breeze, and hoping I am not the only witness to this display of glory, with bowed head step back inside.

Each morning is the same routine. Center walk, scrutinizing the janitorial staff’s results like a shieldmaiden inspecting her clan, ensuring temperature controlled supplies are stored within acceptable range, checking “the hatch”, entering the numbers, delving into the -38 degree freezer for an immigrant song, reporting on the previous day’s plunder of liquid gold, writing today’s “Sprechen Sie?” on the board, then out to the front door to greet my team with a flash of upper canines and unctuous positivism; with caffeine as my sword and sunshine as my shield, I’m ready to face the day. Rasta mom. Rainbow RN. My Ukrainian goddess counterpart. The Swan. Anger. Best friend. The Joker. Whether received with a smile or a complaint, all are blessed as I call them friend, and they enter into our shared domain for the day.

I had once overheard our donors once compared to cattle – lining up in the feed bin, do whatever it takes to keep them fat and happy, only to get slaughtered. They pulse through the center like cells on a heartbeat. Check In. Vital Signs. Hematocrit. Total Protein. Physical. Venipuncture.  Cue Dracula. Revert. Disconnect. Departure. Come back in two and let’s do it again. Thum, thump. Thum, thump. Thum, thump. Every motive varying, some philanthropic and eager to share their stories, others desperate enough for disconnect to threaten wetting themselves, and still others deliberately let their bladders loose for a quick payday.

On this day, nearly a quarter of our machines have been on the lockdown for mutiny. The goddess spends the entire morning in the dungeon flogging and ripping the offenders from weigher arm to centrifuge, discerning blasphemies, and absolving them with tender touch and methodical detail. Emerging with a quick puff to her bangs and eyes like cerulean Scandanavian lakes, she reinstates another reformed sinner back into service to the vampire king, claiming victory.

Rhythm starts: defer this, remove deferral on that, counsel, pout, metrics, schedule, counsel, muscle, dance, donuts, eclairs, open, close, counsel and another EMF. Unbelieveable.

I find humor, I find music. I find rhythm. I find spoofs of songs and hugs and tears, joy in my low pulse and blood pressure, and in the song of PCS2s starting in the quiet of the morning, each with its own frequency depending on the power supply type. I see every coworker as a marvel to behold, beauty in their own madness. And in their eyes, I see my own. I find myself being triggered in the correct ways, and honing my skills and intent.

There is healing in learning something completely new. There is a reminder of how you can do anything if you set your mind to it. That there is power in being forgiving of yourself for having made a mistake and immediately accepting and embracing the lesson. There is satisfaction in finding transferable knowledge and skills. When there is a void to the information, or an unknown skill, you can use the absence of knowledge as a template and resist to create an answer or new skill. Like finding shapes in the clouds, and also seeing the shapes in the sky-shadow between.

The day ends, sun setting over the parking lot. Inhale. Exhale. Feeling my body. Is that my heart? Thum-thump, thum-thump. Have I checked my own vital signs?

159 lbs. 108/62. 58 bpm. 97.5 degrees.

An ounce of perception
A pound of obscure
Process information
At half-speed

Pause
Rewind, replay
Warm memory chip
Random sample
Hold the one you need

Leave out the fiction
The fact is
This friction
Will only be worn by persistence

Leave out conditions
Courageous convictions
Will drag the dream into existence

– Vital Signs, Rush

The spaces in between

Two minds and all the places they’ve been

The spaces in between

I try to put my finger on it.

-Bloodstream, Stateless

Life in the Key of B

“I love you, dearly.”

Upon reaching the sanctuary of La Villa, I was immediately immersed in the everyday rhythm of family life. Morning rituals of coffee and english muffin, yard duty, trips to the everyday low, family dinners, small projects like cleaning and organizing, and cat snuggle talk filled my days.

Every Saturday, I ventured over into the Broad to bring dinner to B. I met her years ago at the wedding of the Landlord, and despite her 104 trips around the sun she was spry, quick witted, gentle, and with a heart large enough to engulf even the most bitter of souls. As age had collected its toll from her memory, I knew she would not remember my name. It mattered little to her, as on the first dinner day she greeted me with the warmest smile of familiarity and love.

“Hello B, my name is C.”

Her award winning half smile-smirk lit up a face that had been previously blank and sorrowful. I learned quickly that B had a way. She knew and remembered more than she let on, which is a stroke of wisdom that I am just a beginner at understanding, the kind of power that silence brings.  I knelt beside her rocking chair.

How are you, B?

Oh, good. Did you eat your supper?

Not yet, I brought some for you. Are you hungry?

*sly smile* Yes.

Each Saturday nearly the same conversation. Most of the family thought that increasing the volume of their voices would help her hear, however there was a different result from kneeling at her side, holding her hand, and talking low so she could read my lips. At times, we prayed. Fond of The Lord’s Prayer, we would say the Presbyterian version she was accustomed to, and finish with “for thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, now and forever.” And Ever, she would add, and squeeze my hand in signal to start again, and we did.

There were days where B seemed to navigate a world that was not entirely in this dimension. She would have conversations with her Lord, asking to join him. It was often snowing in her world, and I came to understand this as where her mind was taking her.  On the second visit, the following conversation.

B, what is your secret? How did you manage to live so long?

I always worked, and found something about my work that I could love. I always try to be kind. I always try to be a good friend.

B, can I be your friend?

Why yes.

You are the first friend that I have made here.

*smiles*

What does it mean to you to be a good friend?

To be loyal. To be there to support one another. To laugh. To sing, and dance to the music. I can’t dance anymore.

So, if I play my violin and dance for you, will you sing and laugh?

*biggest smile* oh yes, I would like that very much.

And so, each subsequent visit I played my violin. I’d get a kiss, we’d eat, then sit in the living room and gather around the music. At first, songs that were written in my memory. Ashokan Farewell, some Bach and Mozart melodies, Vivaldi; then requests – New York, New York was a hit. When asked to sing something that she liked, B dug up O Marie, and I sang at her feet with her and tried to follow along with the Italian lyrics. During the weekdays, I would practice to have something new to play for her, but it would usually default to her favorites, and to grandparent’s house we went. I explained to her that I was working on something special just for her, and she would hear it at a special time. This last piece, I played for her on December 22. Two days later, she was in the hospital.

Each day I went in to visit her with the violin, however I did not always play. Sometimes alert and sometimes asleep, always thirsty, and with the most delicate hands that became more fragile by the day. On the last day she was alert, I noticed there was a song hidden in the life support machines, and started to sing it. She tapped her fingers in my hand, and together, we began to write a symphony of life, and a finale of death. I explained to her that my violin needed a name, and I was wondering if she would honor me by allowing me to name it after her. She nodded. I explained that every song I played would be her, and she would be music that would fill souls with love for as long as I was alive. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her last words to me, “I love you, dearly” still remain in my mind, her voice a soothing salve.

B passed away on my 44th birthday. She was easily the most beautiful soul I have ever encountered, and a gift from the Universe when I desperately needed to be reminded of what it felt like to be loved without condition.

Oh to live life in the key of B.

The Bee

If on my mind you choose to rest

I’ll let you be, I’ll let you be

If in my dreams you find it best

I’ll let you be, I’ll let you be

For you will not leave at my behest

Those thoughts which I have since caressed

Think you now that I jest

I’ll let you be, I’ll let you be

I have no mind to run away

I’ll let you be, I’ll let you be

No sleepless nights, no seizing day

I’ll let you be, I’ll let you be

The choice is yours to act this way

Caterwauling shrieking jay

Here in peace I choose to stay

I’ll let you be, I’ll let you be

Sail-less ship, lost at sea

I’ll let you be, I’ll let you be

No longer bound, I set you free

I’ll let you be, I’ll let you be

Alone I’ll sing my melody

A harmonic minor key

No nectar for the stinging bee

I’ll let you. Be.

-skuldthevalkyrie2019

photo credit to Anna

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 Girl with Kaleidoscope Eyes

Photo credit Dark R Photography (@dark_ryoko)

Drug Content. Viewer forewarned.

The first time I took LSD. To set the stage, this was after a two week period where I had been broken up with. After a week, I had gone out to find “big dick”, and it was the worst experience ever. There was no heart, no passion, no climax. I felt dirty and used, although who was doing the using? Both really. Anyhow, my heart was shredded. He had sent a few emails that following week – I suppose it was during this time that the infamous “Oh Donna” had come back, but at this point I’ll never know, and don’t necessarily care either. Sigh. This is the emotional fuckery that causes a bad trip, although I was completely naive. I had not known it at the time, and was but a babe to the drug scene. He was Ex Perienced and Know Legible. He always said he was the expert, and why would I doubt?

I asked what it would do. He said it would cause a little tickle after about 20 minutes, just in the throat. We would want to eat lots of vitamin C, and I had made my infamous black bean, corn and mango salad (oh, that mango) so we were golden. He said I would see things from a different perspective. Not wanting to seem the wuss and longing for anything to understand him, I obliged and chewed on the papery square. A metallic coppery taste, not entirely unpleasant, with notes of white mold. The paper was a 60 lb bond, that much was clear, a Georgetown product by the grain, with a low but noticeable cotton content. My stomach rolling faster than my tongue, I swallow after a few minutes, mostly to get the tiny threads out from my cheek pockets. We sat on the edge of my bed in my pristinely clean bedroom.

The tingling began. I remember thinking, why did He choose me? I don’t do these things. Why am I doing this?

Suddenly, we were gods. GODS. Someone had installed a flip top head, and my brain was exposed not only to brush by rear molars.

https://youtu.be/WESUiQ07ibY

I saw entire universes unfolding before my eyes, and gave birth to them with him. They were our children. There were never any that took, save for the Gargoyle, although there were a few times I suspected an ectopic pregnancy, for the pain and blood shed. These you know not until it is too late, and the babe is but a bloody stain in a pair of underwear you’ll never wear again. I didn’t want to know. The highest high, laughing and rolling on the floor in the kitchen on my perfectly polished floor, with Jake the Fluffernutter giving us the confused dog look. On the couch. Highest high. Lowest low. Over and over and over and over. He held me through it all, but what was he going through? I had no idea, I was in my head and then not, and then lost. Then back to Jake. I held a strawberry in front of his perfect tiny black nose. The pup shook and quivered. I had never noticed that he had wanted something so desperately before. He ate it, with his gnarly Gargamel breath giving way to the ripe sweetness. Confused dog look again. What was he worried about? Worried. The neighbors. My landlord! The biggest hippie. He must wonder what we were doing and I knew how thin the walls were. Paranoia, hysterical crying. I felt unsafe. Then unwanted. I remember telling him how I was concerned he would never be interested in anything I wanted to talk about. No wonder – thus far I had relinquished most of the conversations and he happily took the lead. I did not think I was interesting or clever enough. He seemed so much more worldly and educated. Confident, yes. I wasn’t. I felt naive.

Over and over again and the world became dark. Eyes everywhere. On the walls. On the ceiling. His third eye as a snake’s, a slit with multiple eyelids. Queasy. I lost it, and ran into the bathroom. Water on the face might help, but then the world flipped 90 degrees and I had to hang on to the edge of the sink to keep from falling off the face of the earth. Then I was worshiping my sparking porcelain goddess, filling her with regurgitated strawberry juice and caressing the cool seat with my cheek. He stayed. I was rung like a towel after hours and hours of laughter and bawling and fucking and hurling. But there was no sleep. It’s against Lucy’s rules.

I was finally convinced to venture outside. The plantains beckoned me to caress their soft leaves, soft and velvety, pulsing. Dandy Lions smiled and swayed with the tilt of the earth. Perennial flowers waved and vibrated with every phosphorescent color imaginable. The rush of xylem and phloem pulsed in the veins of the maple tree that shaded my favorite reading spot. I wanted to sleep. Back inside. I remember little else of that day-typically the last few hours of the trip are fuzzy and full of headaches, avoiding eyes. However, I did remember one thing.

The clown. The clown face. A triangle. A circle. A square. Angry. Just a flash, but I could not look. Why was this happening? It was the last thing I wanted to share. And eyes. Eyes inside of everything.

I could not tell why. I did not know and was not ready.  Somehow through the sea of sparkly eyes and yin yang, I drifted, restless and listless.

“On the edge of sleep,
I was drifting for half the night
Anxious and restless,
Pressed down by the darkness
Bound up and wound up so tight
So many decisions, a million revisions
Caught between darkness and light”

-Double Agent, RUSH

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

When in Rome

“If you need a friend, don’t look to a stranger
You know in the end, I’ll always be there
But when you’re in doubt, and when you’re in danger
Take a look all around, and I’ll be there

I’m sorry, but I’m just thinking of the right words to say
I know they don’t sound the way I planned them to be
But if you’ll wait around awhile, I’ll make you fall for me

And if I had to walk the world, I’d make you fall for me
I promise, I promise you I will”

The Promise, When In Rome

My dearest C,

I believe in you.

You are my treasure and the most important person in the whole world to me.

I promise to hold you when you cry, care for you when you are sick, cheer you on at all of your successes and laugh at all of your corny jokes. You are hilarious! All I ask is that you do not give away those tears to those who do not deserve them, and that you celebrate every success with me! Please, make me laugh! It’s one of your better qualities!

I promise to encourage you every time you feel like you have failed, and help you recognize that the only failure is not trying. Your victories are my victories. All I ask is that you never give up.

I want to be alone with you, even if we don’t say a word to each other. I love you and will never leave you.

I want to listen to you breathe and hear your heart beat every day, for your breath is my breath and your heart is my heart. All I ask in return is that you take the time to allow me to.

I love talking with you all night long, and baring my soul to you, and inspiring you to do the same, because you have absolutely nothing to be ashamed or afraid of. All I ask is that you be honest with me, and tell me when there is something that you are feeling fear about. I want you to always feel comfortable talking with me. I will never judge you.

I love making music with you, and I love it when you play your violin. We bring joy everywhere we make music together. All I ask is that you keep practicing every single day, and follow your heart. Your love and compassion will lead you to greatness.

I love your giving heart, and I promise never to take advantage of it. All I ask is that you continue to believe in yourself, and acknowledge the praise others give you is a mirror of your abilities, and they would not placate you or lie to you, especially not when they are paying you for it! I will nurture and care for you, and I will warn you if anything seems out of line, unsafe or unhealthy.

I love your dreamer’s heart, and hold it in the highest regard. All I ask is that you keep listening to your dreams. If your dreams change, and the old dreams no longer serve you, it is okay to change your path. We all grow and change. Embrace who you are at all times, and I promise to wrap my love around you.

You are such an incredible artist. You draw, paint, batik, write, craft, take great photographs, make beautiful music and have such an interesting perspective. All I ask is that you continue to do these things, for as long as they give you joy.

I can’t wait to swing swords with you, and will practice with you whenever you want and for as long as you want. I love to learn from you. All I ask is that you continue to teach me everything that you know, and have confidence in your knowledge. You are smart stuff! Just look at your children – the apple does not fall far from the tree.

I will encourage you to rest when you are tired, though, because I want you to feel good and get enough sleep.

I will always respect your need for privacy, and I promise that I will always be true to you. All I ask is that you respect yourself, and don’t feel like you have to lay it all on the table for anyone.

I will never cheat on you. All I ask is that you never cheat yourself.

I will never break your heart. All I ask is that you hold your heart in the same regard, and protect it the way I will. Please be careful with it, and with me.

I expect for you to hold me to these promises, for I will hold them to you.

I will always be gentle with your heart, and firm with your resolve. All I ask is that you are gentle with yourself too, and never give up on yourself.

I promise to spend time with you learning all of the things that you want to learn, and will make sure that you get your degree. I will hold you accountable for completing it, and will celebrate with you when you finish, however long it takes!

I promise you, everything is going to be okay, and you never have to worry about anyone causing you harm, especially not me. All I ask is that you never think of harming yourself again, and if you do, you will come to me first so that we can go talk with someone together.

I will make sure you have the means to defend yourself, and if you cannot, I will be there to defend you.

I will treat you with honor and dignity. All I ask is that you do the same.

I will be your armor, sword, and shield. I will be the hero in every one of your stories.

You are the most beautiful creature in the world, and I am head over heels in love with you.

I promise to be patient with you as you grow and become real, as I am growing and becoming real myself.

I know that you learn from your mistakes, and that you can be anything or anyone you desire.

You have my promise to be faithful and true and honorable to you for as long as we both shall live. I will never stray, nor break my oath to you. If I do, please hold me accountable and never allow me to break my promise to you again.

We will create the most beautiful worlds together. Nothing can stand in our way, because we are magic together.

I love you. I do. Forever. I promise.

Love,

Me, Myself and I

“Something in your eyes
Makes me want to lose myself
Makes me want to lose myself
In your arms
There’s something in your voice
Makes my heart beat fast
Hope this feeling lasts
The rest of my life
If you knew how lonely my life has been
And how long I’ve been so alone
If you knew how I wanted someone to come along
And change my life the way you’ve done”

Chantal Kreviazuk

 

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 Part 3 – Winter

There are some things you cannot un-see.

I was once shown a video of a man who was killed by a horse in the most unimaginable way possible whilst an onlooker helped and watched. The horror of it sickened me, how anyone could do this to an unsuspecting animal, how anyone could sit back and watch someone else die while they were “given the horse” in an act of perversion, bestiality and cruelty. It became a term of malice, and even a perverse cartoon. The irony and the discomfort of the humor were sickening, but to cope, I laughed, even if at first the laughs were just huffs or “har har har”. I went along with the jokes to protect myself, even instigating them to throw off the scent of mutiny. This was par for the course, and Stockholm Syndrome saved my sweet ass for a little while, until I realized that there was nothing about me that my Steel was not willing to exploit, demean, belittle, criticize, bully or find another way to be cruel about. If you have ever seen a copy of the Power and Control Wheel, take note of the kinds of threats and assaults that are mentioned. I was told by an expert in the field that because I am such an incredible person and magnificent catch, this is why every method listed was used, and then some of his own unique creation, to get me under his control. What a wild filly.

Click to access PowerControlwheelNOSHADING.pdf

The devil was the most beautiful angel, but he was an angel to begin with. An angel that had fallen away from God. I cannot believe in a God so unloving that he would allow any one of his creations to be cast aside for making a mistake, even a huge one. There is always forgiveness. There is always redemption. If you believe in the story of Jesus, then how can you believe that every mistake, every one could be forgiven, except that of Satan’s? Do you think that the sacrifice of God incarnate is not enough to redeem it? If so, then that is megalomania beyond megalomania, and that person will be doomed to be stuck in the hellfire of eternal damnation until he finally gets it right. Or, every religion is shit. Every single one.

There was and is no exception or limit to forgiveness. Repentance is required, though. There is no fake it until you make it. That bullshit is wrapped in cellophane, and can easily be seen right through. Until there is actual repentance, there is no forgiveness. One has to actually want it and do whatever it takes to earn it.

There are some that say Paganini sold his soul to play the violin so masterfully. Or are these just the kind of self-righteous, egotistical, know-it-all, malignantly narcissistic, borderline personality disordered individuals who threatened to blow up the Temple they claimed to love, cherish, and honor until the day they died only not to understand that one cannot cheat one’s way to Mastery? One needs to educate oneself, work for it, practice, and be trained by a qualified instructor well beyond their first level of proficiency. It takes more than memorizing what the seven liberal arts and sciences are to become a Master. It takes more than rote cleverness and recitation of a code. It involves learning the lessons. It also involves paying the price, should you not conform to the lessons, or of the obligation. Lessons of failure, embarrassment, shame, ostracism, tough love. One needs to be trained, to study, be tested, and use them in regular practice, with correct intent. This is what makes a Master. The secret is out.

“There is no secret ingredient.” – Po’s Father, Kung Fu Panda

“There are two types of people – trained and untrained.” -The Steel

I figured out the day that the Steel formally gave up. May 21, 2015. This was right before he broke up with me for two weeks. This was when I had said “Have fun with your training” and really out of ignorance not knowing what to call it other than words he himself had used. This was the day he stopped training.

“I am not training for anything,” he writes.

https://brokencovenant.wordpress.com/2015/05/21/what-are-you-training-for/

Ergo – if there are two types of people, by his own admission and logic, he is the type that is untrained.

I am classically trained. I started on viola when I was eight years old, and switched to violin after my children were grown. I am educated, I worked for it, I practice all the time – with my violin, without my violin, by reading music, listening and imagining myself playing, remembering lessons, applying what was learned. When  I started on violin, I went back to the very beginner books that I had learned viola with, and went through every single song until I could play it from memory. This is not just riding a bicycle. This is transitioning to an elegant, state of the art, highly sensitive elite motorcycle, more delicate and highly tuned, and in a different clef to boot. I did this knowing full well that it would be challenging and require blood, sweat, tears and a whole slew of other atrocities that they never tell you about in grade school. It would make the beginner frightened to death of trying.

They say all is fair in love and war. :0)

“Galileo’s head was on the block. His crime was looking up the truth. And as the bombshells of my daily fears explode I try to trace them to my youth. How long until my soul gets it right? Would any human being ever reach that kind of light? I call on the resting soul of Galileo, king of night vision, king of insight” – Galileo, Indigo Girls

When you are exposed to evil, the only way to scare the demons away is to laugh. Whenever I have been in an extremely agonizingly painful situation, I have cracked jokes to distract myself and ease the tension in the room, because “Why so serious?” I’ve done this with physical pain, emotional pain, psychological pain. I’ve taken to the phrase “Better a pain in the ass, than a pain in the neck!” That poor bloke with The Horse. That’s one I’ll not trade with, thank you very much. I’ve been given the horse one too many times.

Some people like horses. Some people like to give people the horse. I prefer to give the horse a carrot.

So today is the day that the Pirate Looks At 40. One of the things I learned from living in the South is how not to act. People down there would hate you so much that they’d bake you a cake. When you hate sweets. And it’s a thank you party. And they all know it. I’m not so callous. I still love the Steel. Today, I will bake one of my newly renamed world famous Annie Cakes.

Annie is to Horse as Horse is to Carrots, as Carrots is to Cake.

What’s remaining? Annie Cake. Because, math. Slice of cake, really!

I whipped up the luscious, finger-licking-good cream cheese frosting, hand shred a pound and a half of those lovely roots, toasted and chopped the pecans, spiced it to perfection, and finished it with all of the heart, soul, compassion, adoration, and love I have ever had for him. I will feed this delicious cake to my loved ones, who went absolutely crazy for it at Thanksgiving. None of them will understand that this cake is really about him, and I would not want to spoil it for them. It’s a shame that he will not be here to savor this delight, one of his favorites. They just do not understand that I will always love him. This is because, love does. I celebrated the love I had for him all day today. It was real, it was true. I am not and never claimed to be perfect, however I always work my hardest to be the very best I can be at anything I set my mind to. And that included my marriage with the Steel.

I love the Steel because I made a decision and commitment to love him, based on the man he showed me he could be. I can never love him in a sexual way ever again. Oh, not eros. Oh no fucking way. Boundaries! No touching. Not even a peck or a Christian Shoulder hug. That was lost after those monstrous hands went after my delicate throat.  (Olly olly oxen free – ready or not, here I come) Out of respect for myself, I will not have intercourse with anyone for at least a full year.

The Steel was fond of Justice. JustUs. At least, in the end, he surprisingly admitted that what he really meant was JustMe (meaning just him).

Happy Birthday. It’s going to be a long cold winter. Are you ready?

Winter is coming. Hajime.

 

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.

The Horse, part 1 – Annie

“When I’m stuck with a day that’s gray and lonely,

I just stick up my chin and grin and say

The sun will come out tomorrow, so you gotta hang on ’til tomorrow, come what may.”

Tomorrow, “Annie”

Another brisk autumn day, with the first deep rounds of snow long melted, the Landlord is restless. Like a dog without a bone, he has nothing to do. On days such as this, there is suddenly a made up trip to somewhere that requires my company, and I jump at the chance to oblige. Being cooped up in Spare Oom is no place for a wildflower, and I am eager to go out and spread my oats. Making sure I am prepared for the below freezing temperatures, hat, mittens, thick sweater, and Sherpa lined jacket are wrapped snugly around my increasingly slender frame. Congratulating myself on hitting the hamster wheel again this morning, I hear the Queen of Scots proclaiming, “Let her eat cake!” Good idea, I think.  The Landlord is rummaging in the ice box, pulling out a fresh bag of Dacus Carota Sativa, and I give him the genetic one eyebrow raise. He smiles, his aging face looking more like the medicine man by the day, and quickly cocks his head toward the door. I nod, and we’re off in the 250hp open sleigh, and laughing all the way.

Not too far down the road, he pulls of to the side, demeanor changing to that of a young lad ready to ask a young lass out for a dance. Smile hung like a hammock between two oaks, he selects three of the finest, most orange carrots from the sack, and cuts off the end with his knife that he’s had since Lyndon Johnson was in office. Shards of Narsil, it’s still sharp! We exit the four wheel drive and cross the road to Annie.

Annie, as you may have guessed, is not a red headed afro-toting orphan. Annie is a horse. THE HORSE, in the eyes of the Landlord. He gazes on her with soft eyes, and makes his way up to the fence to draw her attention with the rooted treats. It is not often that he is heard in a falsetto, and unless getting the attention of two tiny lionesses who patrol La Villa, his voice is low and soft as distant thunder. Animals have a look in their eyes of recognition, and Annie has it for the Landlord. She trots up, coming so close that I watch the steamy tornadoes jet from her giant nostrils, gathering tiny icicles on her nose hair. She is an absolute beauty. When I was young, I received a book on how to draw horses, and spent countless hours trying to get the perspective of the jaw to muzzle just right. Annie could have easily been a centerfold for this manual, with lidded and lashed saucer eyes, twitching ears, and untamed blonde mane.

The Landlord breaks each carrot into three horse-bite size pieces (you can tell he has done this before), and with one in hand, reaches over the fence to within inches of Annie. Then something happens I did not expect – she flinches, and draws back a dozen f steps, head hanging and whinnying. If the Landlord’s eyes would ever shed a tear, this would have been the time. Disappointment deepened every well earned line of laughter angst. I look to him, his steel grey eyes as wet glass. “What just happened?” I ask. The Landlord is an animal whisperer. Cats, dogs, birds, squirrel, deer, turkeys, moose all come to his perch. I’m baffled. He sighs, and explains that a few weeks before I had arrived at La Villa Strangiato, there was an accident with the horse, and he had shocked her. The fence is electrically wired, you see. He had been reaching over the fence to feed her a juicy nibble, when his arm brushed the wire. The jolt went through him and into Annie’s sweet snoot. I asked if he was okay, and he shook it off. “I’m worried about her.”

I paused. The Landlord cared so much for his beloved companion with the sweet horse kisses and the doe eye lashes, and cared not for himself. She was scared. She did not understand what happened. To Annie, this blaze reward had been wielded by not just a man, but a wizard that drew fire. She had no idea what to expect, and while she was yearning for the treat, trust that was once there was shattered. I rest my hand on his shoulder. “She has PTSD. She has no idea what to expect when you come up, and is easily lost in the trauma. You would never intentionally do this.” His eyes well up, gaze that of into distant mountains, and shakes his head in reply. I tell him it’s going to be okay, it will just take time. “I should know, I am expert.” He smiles, one that is bearing the force of a thousand tidal waves of emotion, and replies softly “Okay”.

Carrot thirds in hand, I coo and whisper to our equine delight. She cocks her head, interested in hushed tones and coral cobs. I bow to her as I have seen horses do, right foot in front, knees bent, arms tucked, and head lowered to the ground, and wait. A horse’s gait is unmistakable, and the crackling crunch of the frozen mud and grass are reminiscent of the sounds the scar tissue in my splenius and semispinalis caplitus each time I stretch. Annie is so close I can hear her breath and almost her heartbeat. Slowly, I rise just enough to roll one of the carrots under the fence. Her eyes widen, and it is the first time I have witnessed the oblong pupil and deep chocolate of her orbital contemplators. Our gazes locked, the Queen of Scots whispers “I love you” in the softest voice she can manage. Bringing her sweet pucker to the ground, she gingerly lifts it and starts crunching happily.

The Landlord’s expression has changed. Bewilderment. Beauty. Love. Relief. Understanding. Did I just detect a hint of Respect? It is this that separates us from the animals, but is our understanding of their struggles and lack of knowledge that creates the ability to cross the fences time and time again. The Landlord is rolling the bones now, happily engaging with his beloved Annie. He expresses that she has the sweetest kisses in the whole universe. Driving back to the house, the Landlord’s sighs of relief and recanting of the moments bring joy to the sleigh.

It is a few days later, and the Landlord has that look in his eye. “We’re off to see Annie,” he declares to anyone who wishes to listen, and in moments we are before the great white equine. This day, the first few carrots are under the fence, and she chomps merrily. Taking the last two, I reach out through the mid section of the fence with carrot in hand. She inches in, and to my surprise, flips it into her mouth with a flick of her pink and brown lips. I watch her chew, and wait until she has cleared the bits from her teeth. It is then that she comes back for the last carrot. Annie hesitates, inches away. I’m silent, her breathing is deafening as it quickens. She leans in, and takes it, but lingers just a moment, touching lips to palm. A kiss. A kiss from the horse. Never in a million years would I ever expect an expression of love from this near unicorn, but she did, and the Landlord saw it with his ancient eyes. He laughed.

I think he might be jealous.

There is nothing like giving the horse a carrot.

“And the men who hold high places
Must be the ones who start
To mold a new reality
Closer to the heart
Closer to the heart

The blacksmith and the artist
Reflect it in their art
They forge their creativity
Closer to the heart
Yes closer to the heart

Philosophers and plowmen
Each must know his part
To sow a new mentality
Closer to the heart
Yes closer to the heart, yeah, oh

Whoa whoa
You can be the captain
And I will draw the chart
Sailing into destiny
Closer to the heart”

-Closer to the Heart – RUSH

https://songmeanings.com/songs/view/3458764513820550502/

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

 

 

 

 

The Wheel of Time, and the Gargoyle Room

“The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the Mountains of Mist” – Robert Jordan

Call it recycling, call it born again, believing in past lives, or travelling around the universe with the same group of souls over and over again, unless you are anti-theist and believe it’s a one and done deal, most folks out there believe in the circle of life. Acceptance of one of these belief systems is a coping mechanism of the human mind, as we try to understand the infinite in what to our perspective can only be finite because it is measured. By what, you say? Time. We call it a lifespan. We’re conceived, shot out of a vagina, fed, shit, are shat upon, grow up, shit on others, and we die shitting ourselves. If we are lucky, we find those brief glimmers of life where it isn’t all shit, and there is something to believe in.

Like, the Gargoyle Room.

The Gargoyle Room was the dream child of my Love and I. He wanted a bar, I wanted an event venue. We compromised and got creative. He pointed out the obstacle of remodeling this basement room in an old Masonic Temple, considering the organization we were working for would not release funds (that were available, mind you) for such remedial tasks as modernization and code compliance. We would need to install a three station sink, serve some sort of food, have code compliant ice machines, and the list went on. So I said, well, we can still have an event venue, so let’s run an event every single night of the week. People show, great! If not, no harm done. Want to have a Record Good Time and spin some vinyl? Go for it. Want to show off your talents on stage? We’re open to that. We even had an improv group entitled “Playing on Orange Couches”, named for the repurposed 1960’s burnt orange sofas, loveseats, and chairs that filled the eclectically designed space . We had great music events, open mic, and karaoke. This was a child born out of love and creativity that I sank all of the goodness and kindness and heartfelt will and intent that I ever had. It was borne out of pure intention, for people of the heart of America to have a place that they could go to that was not a skank-a-way, or a red light meet up. This was something for the pure of heart, meant to imbue and inspire the hearts of creatives and lost souls. Even the custom cocktails that were served were meant to honor the Masons who came before, and who had chosen to donate the building to us. The Salina Blue Iced Tea was a legend in and of itself. M&M, I have not forgotten you.

No event had the impact, though, like Paint a Ceiling Tile Night.

When I first met Love he introduced me to the Tarot and Jungian psychology. It was not in the way that you might think, but that story is for him and him only, not for this audience. I learned that the Tarot was not a way of telling someone’s fortune, but rather it was a mirror that we could look at and help us discern the truth about what is on our hearts. The Medieval Scapini deck is rich in symbolism and each card has many things to look at. What I started to realize is that I saw something different on each card every time I looked at it. That depending on the condition of my heart, I might be seeing symbols for life, or arrogance, or innocence, or hunger, of danger or true love, and it could be different every time I looked at the card as to what jumped out at me. Anyone who tells you that they can give you a reading, Love says, is only doing it for entertainment value. What I learned though, is that when he gave a reading, he was really speaking of the symbols that he saw and was projecting his intent.

So, back to the ceiling tiles. I had this idea as I was getting a cat scan for something or other at the hospital. Above me were ceiling tiles and the panels that covered the lights were translucent, with a static cling sky and cloud scene. It was magical to look up, at what could have just as easily been left a harsh florescent bulb, and find this serene peaceful cloud scene. Clouds have always brought me comfort, which is another story for another time. But I remember mentioning this to Love and him thinking it was a great idea. He wanted to start by having some tiles done, so that it would give some inspiration to the room (fake it till you make it works in business), and suggested painting the 21 major Arcana in the tarot deck. We got right down to it, soliciting some help from friends, volunteers, and even the foundation director. One lovely lady traced, some others painted, others made a downright mess. Some obvious takers decided not to be involved. Love painted the Magician. He always fancied himself a wizard and as we were in a palace in the middle of nowhere Kansas, it seemed the perfect choice for him. The director chose the Star. A good friend, The Fool. As these were non-descript vague tarot cards, unless you truly understood the intent behind the card, it was hard to understand from the symbolism what you were choosing – the simplicity in these designs led for creative license, and opportunity to explore and express yourself.

The first one that I chose had a wheel that looked like a ship’s steering wheel, with a pharaoh in the center. Two serpents flanked the wheel on the top and bottom of the card, number 10 in the series. I only recently learned that this card is the Wheel of Fortune. I took special interest in painting this tile, working to create a clear colorful image. I filled in all of the outlined forms, and when satisfied with the result, created a background not on the original card – diamond shaped blue and green tiles, I worked for several days, coming back to it to make sure that each tile had light and balance of color and shading.

The next tile I chose was The Lovers. Again, in a simple non-descript design, a male and female figure, with a tree growing betwixt. This one I painted darkly, black and red and dark blue sky behind. Inside each of the lovers I created a heart, but each heart was surrounded by the black exterior. As for the Tarot, these were the last that I finished, however I painted two others – one, a lollipop and lips, and another a field of varying size circles turned into water droplets, again with the same green and blue motif of the Fortune Wheel. I never got the chance to finish this one. It was painstaking to make, but I wanted to make certain that the final product was the very best I could produced.

Curious this all is as it relates to the tarot, and why I chose the cards that I did, and what the meaning was behind my art. Because, all art has meaning. I remember explaining my view of art to Love early on, with all sincerity. And I quote “To explore one’s creativity is to touch the divine, and to deeply experience the work of another deepens our humanity.” So the lollipop? Lol, a little fun I had on a broomstick, maybe not the most loving kind thing in the world I have done, but it sure was great retribution for Colfax (another story on its way, I promise!), and was an act of empowerment, as I turn men to jelly with a lollipop, with a lollipop, with a lollipop, and without even trying to be seductive. But when I try, they lick their lips in spite of themselves, and cruel women quake and beg for forgiveness and kindness as I hand them their own trash. Some women do it with a banana flavor taffy- whatever, you cannot account for Love’s taste or tact or lack of class or decency or even discretion. At least someone found a conscience there, and is already forgiven a thousandfold.

The second tile of circles partially finished, these are water droplets, reflecting the tiles of the Wheel of Fortune. I have no idea when the tears will stop falling, for they seem to be in endless supply. I have no idea when the loss of Love or who I thought Love was will end. I have no way of knowing if all of these tears are only my own, reflected in this pool. I have no way of knowing even if I was told, for I mind what people do over what they say. I Hope they understand what the last orange actions bespoke of intent. Actions speak louder than words. All we have is time.

I see you.

Glinda was the Good Witch of the North. Glinda was never given a whole lot of credit, but she deserves it. Those Red Ruby Slippers were never magic to begin with. The power was within Dorothy to return home whenever she so chose. But, that’s another story. I was asked early on if I was a good witch or a bad witch. I chose good. I still do. Chaotic positive. Roll the bones. Come out from behind your curtain, Wizard. I see your feet.

“We don’t have to talk. We don’t even have to touch. I can feel your presence in the silence that we share. Nothing changes faster than the speed of love. My heart goes out to you.” -Neil Peart

Matthew 18:21-22

 Then came Peter to him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? till seven times? Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee, Until seven times: but, Until seventy times seven.

Luke 17:3-4

So watch yourselves. “If your brother or sister sins against you, rebuke them; and if they repent, forgive them. 

Even if they sin against you seven times in a day and seven times come back to you saying ‘I repent,’ you must forgive them.

#thegargoyleroom #robertjordan #wheeloftime #neilpeart #rush #jung #psychology #forgiveness #candy #thedoodlebug

Bend like the Birch

Solace sought from sour siblings,
Nature’s parchment curling on slender arms
Beckon challenge out of the soil
Grip us.
Conquer us.
Come see with our eyes.
Fleshy limbs seeking wooden ones,
I scamper up the trunk, gaining
Footing on knobs and knuckles and knots,
Until my weight bows the bough.
My arms and legs tendriled, and
With the greater bole below,
Together we sway.
Leffffft. Righhhhht.
Cheek pressed to the bark and eyes closed,
Pounding xylem and phloem in my ears, I
Inhale.
Exhale.
Autumn’s cool kiss tousling my hair
We bend deeply together,
Rocking daughter, cradling mother.

Much of my time as a small child was spent outdoor amidst the wooded land behind our home in rural Southern New Hampshire. Being the youngest sister of three, I spent much of my time observing nots: learning what not to do, how not to get caught, how not to be found. I was all of three when my father found me at the top of one of our birch trees, and after “rescuing” me, proceeded to cut off every limb below five feet high on every tree on our property. This effort was not enough to dissuade my love of being in the arms of the woods, and I soon learned to shimmy up a smooth trunk just as limberly as if there were footings. The vantage point of being situated thirty to forty feet up in a tree makes all troubles soft and insignificant, and I quickly learned how to at once both hold on and let go.

In Robert Frost’s poem “Birches”, he muses about an imaginary boy having had played and swung amongst the willowy treetops, causing them to bow and bend to his will “until he took the stiffness out of them and not one but hung limp”. It is easy to relate to this fictional child, swinging like Tarzan from treetop to treetop, feeling the bend of the branches beneath, and the rush of the conquest of riding each to the ground.

But can we relate to the birch?

The birch, while firmly and often aggressively rooted in the ground, is flexible and soft. It is a fast growing tree, usually at the edge of the thick. As it grows and is weathered, its papery bark peels and yields and curls like so much fine parchment. During the harsh New England winters, while the skinny trunks and branches hold little snow, during storms they become encased with ice, and you can hear them often burst with the expansion of freezing sap. Despite the destruction, these injured trees continue to grow in other directions. In the spring, birches tend to bud and leaf out early, the first to frost pink and green into a landscape of white and gray. In the summer, it welcomes chickadees and other nesting birds in its branches and shade. In the early autumn, they are quick to turn yellow and the first to yield to the oncoming cooler climate.

So how are we in relation to the birch? In the relationship of our roots to our trunks to our limbs, our foundation should be grounded in love and respect for ourselves and our inherent nature. We should not let that, however, cause us to be resistant to change, growth and new experience, or so stalwart that we should uproot when perceived catastrophe strikes. When our hearts are broken, do we resist and stew in anger, or do we allow them to feel the pain (burst) and work it through until we can grow again in a new direction? Are we the first to admit wrongdoing, the first to forgive, the first to change? Are we welcoming to new influences and willing to be a perpetual student? And when it is time to pass on, whether from life or just to a new situation, are we accepting and willing to follow the path of peace?

It is often asked of me why and how it is that I am so happy all of the time. Anyone who has known me is aware that I have had my share of hardships, trials, and challenges that could justifiably had made me a bitter person. The fact that I have earned my living managing a chain of retail stores for more than a decade would to some make me a clear candidate for the president of the miserable. My retort has been “so much water off a duck’s back” – I learned early on that if I am not flexible and accepting and willing to change, that misery torments my soul. Seeking the way of peace allows the hardships to blow through my branches; the changes in season to blossom my heart; the yield of forgiveness to let go of pain; the yearning for knowledge to entice growth. Perhaps I ought to change my adage.

I bend like the birch.