SHE BREATHES
*************************************
Heavy is the hand
That pressed her form against herself
Fat teeth
Glisteneed in the moonlight
They waited there
Net spread, hands cupped around their ears
Surrounding her frail departure
She draws the last breath
Undeniable beauty
The offering
Fragrant still
Even in Death
One by one
They pluck a leaf
To prove that she had faded
Delighting in their spoils
They locked hands
And marched into the bloody night
A nightingale
Comes a singing
She lights upon the still warm leaves
And as she lets out her last last hushed coo
One last sound shatters the night
She breathes
G R O W. H E A L. REJOICE.
I’m pretty excited in my life right now. You’d think I won the lottery with all the fun I’ve been having lately, but no, rather, I broke my foot just over a week ago and won’t be able to return to work (as an Addiction Counselor) for the next 2 months.
The break on my left foot, in the left metatarsal, is completely severed in two:
The Orthopedist told me that it’ll take several months to heal, and that it’s going to “suck” for a long time.
Per the usual, “sucking” is truly a matter of perspective. One man’s suck is another man ‘s paradise, and I choose the latter to revel in.
I have crutches and a cast shoe I’m supposed to wear, but the majority of the time, I do just fine with strategic foot placement when walking (hobbling). I can’t stand fully on my foot with it flat on the ground, yet- I have to keep the left side (surrounding the severed bone) uplifted from the ground, forcing the bulk of my weight onto my heel. It took some getting used to but I’m like Speedy Gonzalez now, zipping around the house and yard- cleaning, cooking, gardening, shopping, and everything else I want to do.
I’ve spent the past week scrubbing the house down (including washing all of the windows)- doing some major deep cleaning…gave the cat and my two dogs a bath last night- had my own shower, made a fine supper, and then took the dogs for a 1/2 mile walk around the neighborhood- yes, with my broken foot!
You won’t see any grass growing under these feet.
I enjoy staying active throughout most days. Today, however, was my day of rest, so I stretched out on my chaise lounge with my remote and immediately fell asleep. (So much for catching a show.)
I absolutely love my new house. It’s my sanctuary. I get a ton of sunlight through my living room and sitting area windows, and in the evenings, I light candles and make tea and listen to the hundreds of bullfrogs all singing in a beautiful chorus; I’ve never been happier in life than I am right now.
I think a big part of that is my betrothal to Jesus. I’ve recently renewed my vows of love with Him; choosing to love Him above all other people in the world- including my own parents/children/ friends- there’s nobody who can compare to Him and His love.
I take my burdens, pains, sorrows, and broken heart to Him in prayer twice per day- once in the morning and again in the evening- to my prayer closet, where I go in to Him and shut the door, and am alone with my Creator- my best friend- the lover of my soul.
Jesus says, in Matthew 11:
“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
As humans, we tend to carry a lot of emotional and spiritual baggage within us; especially those of us who’ve experienced a lot of trauma in life, such as myself. It can be difficult to adjust our internal filters accurately, due to the damage we’ve suffered.
It’s no different than trying to fill a ziplock bag with water which has 25 jagged holes in the bag. Until the bag is repaired, there’s simply no way it’s going to hold water.
Every person has his and her own set of unique filters in life. Two people can witness the same event but tell two completely different stories- not rooted in *fact*, but based on their personal anecdotal, theoretical, and empirical life experiences.
We paint the canvas the colours based on our own unique experiences- sifting information through our own filters.
When our filters are skewed and damaged as children, we grow up seeing through those lenses. And, truth be told, we all suffer trauma in life. Nobody gets out of that one.
The question is, are we going to learn and grow and heal and share from our wreckage, or are we simply going to become part of the broken furniture, perpetually injured and damaged, sucking up the light from those around us like an eternal abyss?
Love is a choice.
Hate is s choice.
Pain is a choice.
Anger is a choice.
Forgiveness is a choice.
Unforgiveness is a choice.
Healing is a choice.
Bitterness is a choice.
Happiness is a choice.
I thank God, for freeing me from the shackles of hatred and unforgiveness toward others.
I know people, personally, who claim to be Christians- go to Church faithfully- read the Bible, pray- do all of the “righteous” things Christians are supposed to do, but their hearts are full of hatred against someone they refuse to forgive, or love.
Like Jesus said, “Their outsides are whited sepulchures, but their insides are full of dead men’s bones.”
They can iron clothes, get their kids ready, feed their family, go to church, put on a “good Christian show” in front of the entire congregation, thinking they’re a hop, skip, and a jump away from Heaven itself- but the Bible says their entire religion is a lie if they say they love God but hate their brother or sister in Christ.
Sadly, I share blood with some of these hypocrites, and don’t even get me started on their utter hypocrisy.
They’re gonna get a sad wakeup call down the road, when they try to storm Heaven, but are forbidden entrance, all because they chose hate over love..unforgiveness over forgiveness. Revenge over compassion. Giving the cold shoulder rather than a warm heart. Withholding charity rather then giving freely from their hearts.
They done gat me preachin’ up in hih!
But back to Jesus. He says, my yoke is easy and my burden is light.
The yoke He speaks of is no different than the yoke around the neck of cattle. His yoke- his instrument of corralling us into his barns, where there is (spiritual) safety, shelter, food and water- is easy, and His burden is light! Not our own. It is us, as humans, who collect heavy burdens throughout life and drag them around, from one person to the next, and then we wonder why we feel dead inside, and why we’re not experiencing joyful relationships that bear fruit.
It is because we’re shackled by our own yoke- a yoke of our own making, with combinations of blame, resentment, envy, strife, hatred and murder that are locking it in place, around our spiritual necks. But what do some do? They blame other people for that yoke that they made themselves. It’s everybody else’s fault, but never their own. In reality, it is their very mouths who’ve dug pits for their enemies that have slaughtered them. The more they vomit out their hate campaigns to one another, the tighter the noose grows around their own necks.
“Thou art snared by the words of thy mouth, thou art taken by the words of thy mouth.” -Proverbs
But Jesus’ yoke is easy.
And His burden is light.
People completely miss the simplicity of this Scripture!
We’re too caught up trying to free our own yokes from our necks that we fail to understand that we’ve got the wrong yoke on to begin with!
We’re supposed to be wearing Jesus’ yoke.
And we’re too used to carrying around our decades-long, dusty old crumbling burdens that we refuse to acknowledge the truth of this part of the Scripture- where Jesus says- MY burden is light.
We have no business (as Christians) to be dragging our decrepit old ancient burdens around in our lives, and God forbid someone should ask us how we’re doing.
“Oh, you know…I’m hanging in there…” (exhales a heavy sigh)
Wow. What a testimony of Jesus’ healing power.
I love the Scripture that states, “The joy of the Lord is my strength.”
There are so many times in the Bible where Jesus tells His disciples- and others- to REJOICE. That’s not a request, but a commandment.
“Rejoice when men shall revile you and say all manner of evil against you for my sake! For great is your reward in Heaven,” He says.
If we’re supposed to rejoice when we’re being persecuted by people- including other Christians- when they’re gnashing on us with their bloody teeth, how much more should we be rejoicing on any given day, no matter how things are going?
These are the principles I live by.
I don’t throw things up here on my blog that I haven’t birthed repeatedly- year in, year out.
This is the secret to my joy.
Notice I didn’t say my happiness.
Happiness is fleeting. It’s emotion-based. It sails in like a balloon, filling the heart, then floats out again, leaving its imprint, echoed by sadness once it’s departed.
But joy!
Joy comes from the Lord. Joy = unadulterated, never-ending happiness.
We don’t have to wait until we get to Heaven (in my case, The New City, mentioned in Revelation) to experience ever-lasting joy!
When I go before the Lord every morning (and again, every evening), on my knees in my secret place– my prayer closet- I shut my door, fall on my face, and give God, and Jesus, what they deserve, which is my praise.
Ru-Ak means “breath”, or “spirit”. It is the very least I can do, as a Christian and follower of Jesus Christ, to offer Him my breath- the very breath He breathed into me to give me life.
My special time in that secret place with the Lord is all about 2 specific things:
1.) Praise
2.) Gratitude
Without gratitude, you’re a dead duck in the water. Gratitude is woven throughout every fiber of my being.
There’s literally nothing I cannot be grateful for. I’ve experienced more hardships than most people will ever have to experience, and can honestly say, I’m grateful for every one. (You can read my BIO tab (at the top of my blog) for more information on that.)
I learned long ago that it doesn’t matter which side of God’s scales we’re on- whether it be the pain side, or the pleasure side- we owe Him our praise and gratitude, regardless. It took years of tragedy, trauma, and gut/wrenching pain for me to realize that no matter my experiences- God is still on the Throne, He’s still God, and He’s still just.
Does the sun not still shine though it’s dark and stormy? Does the sun cease to shine though it’s dark and night?
Just because we don’t see the sun shining during those times doesn’t mean it’s not still there, shining brightly.
So is God.
When I hit my knees to the ground in prayer, I thank Him for everything, including painful experiences. For it’s through the pain that we develop our strong roots. The sunshine is great, it feeds the leafy bits, but it’s the dark, cool soil and the immense pressure therein that cracks the seed’s hull open. And only then does new life begin, as the roots make their way down into the deep, dark earth, so are the prayers and the heart that pours out the pain to the Lord, covered by gratitude for the situation- no matter what I’m going through or experiencing.
The deeper the roots submerge, the richer the water! So is prayer, when the heart pours out its complaints, sorrows, burdens, and troubles before the Lord, offering up gratitude for the pain that we don’t always understand, but trusting that the Lord has already prepared our escape plan- our exit strategy- from the painful situation.
This is truly my secret to remaining joyful in every situation.
The Lord takes the pain- surrounded in gratitude- and draws it into His bosom, converting it into joy, then sends it back down through our conduit of praise.
It’s a transaction. A spiritual transaction.
Pain for joy.
Beauty for Ashes.
The pain is temporary, but the joy is never-ending.
**********************************
I started growing a lemon tree today!
I planted some lemon seeds in a silver pail, using organic (indoor) potting soil, along with some basil, and tomatoes. I’ve never tried to grow anything in my life, but I find it cathartic and relaxing to commune with nature, and to have a relationship with plants.
I can’t wait to see my first sprouts!
I love the time it takes for things to grow. For example, a lemon tree doesn’t produce fruit for its first 5-7 years. It’s a waiting game and it’ll certainly work some patience into ya.
I’m having the time of my life right now. 🤗
I’m accomplishing far more with a broken foot than I ever did without one!
I meditate on these two specific Scriptures throughout the day, when I’m working:
“In all labour there is profit, but the talk of the lips tendeth only to penury.” – Proverbs
And:
“I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me.” – Ephesians
As well as:
“I have an unction from the Holy One, and know all things.”
– Unction means anointing. That was one of my Dad’s favourite Scripture’s that he shared with me.
Time for my beloved Wildflower tea with raw honey!
The frogs are singing their nightly song; I can hear them through my windows. Another wonderful day yawns and prepares to sleep…
…and dream.
FORM
He makes me feel ethereal. Sublime.
Divine.
His love is soft cotton. A raging fire.
He drowns me in his wine.
I’ll forever love him.
Bathe him in my sunshine. Kiss him in my rain.
Stain him with the ruby red dregs of my bleeding heart.
This is my love song & he’ll forever be in my chorus.
Suburban Witchcraft
I’m gonna keep this extremely short, as I’ve been battling Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS), which is so much worse than merely “feeling chronically fatigued” (that’s just one, tiny drop in the bucket), but also, I want to keep the focus on the main point which is, the new launch of one of my WP (and real-life) besties, Oloriel Moonshadow‘s fresh, new magazine, titled: Suburban Witchcraft. She has a super cool online abode that she calls ..color me in cyanide and cherries../Oloriel’s Truth which houses a treasure trove of her personal writings and I can’t praise her highly enough for those! Click on the first or third link up there to go to her place and check them out for yourself. 😉 If you’d like to check out the absolutely gorgeous magazine she created and launched only today, again, click here or on the image below. I highly encourage you to, as it’s beautifully displayed and chock full of prose, short stories, poems, beautiful graphic illustrations, and photos- and just so well presented.
Oloriel, you’re so beautiful both inside and out and I can’t thank you enough for including me in your lovely first issue of Suburban Witchcraft! Rather than highlight my own entry, I encourage each person who finds him, her, or themselves here, to enjoy each and every entry, starting with the cover, then page 1. It’s truly a work of art in its entirety. ❤
Thanks again, O. You’re amazing, truly. x
The Fisherman
I throw my line here and there
Good, bad, it doesn’t matter what I catch
All the colours of the scales are beautiful in my eyes
Some think fishing is for fools
To sit and wait
Perfectly still
For things to happen
Days and years
The line is a funny thing
Sometimes the waters muck things up
The silver line breaks
But away I go
Casting it out again
“Look at that fool,” they say.
“Holding a stick at the water’s edge.
She is mad!”
And on they go, their faint shadows diminishing before my eyes
That are razor-sharp focused on that line
That really does move this time.
Freedom
Purple stripes upon my back
As fat as a Christmas Goose
A sacrifice
To feed hungry eyes
The air around me whirs and dirs.
Time slows
I go
Faster still
On the horizon
A fat noose
Hangs from a Sycamore tree
And it seems to say
”Run faster, girl! Run on!
There will be no celebration for you here!”
So I carry on through these black nights
And dark days
That will bring me to my home
Someday
And freedom.
Turkey Bones
Turkey Bones
White clean
Two lovers
Eternally embraced
Lying together
On their mirrored bed of hot silver
Goblets of wine at their feet
They have waited
For their annual feast
Conjoined twins
Twisted at birth
Cartilaged duo
Greedy hands cannot wait
To rip you apart
Destroy and sever you
Ugly dry bones that are good for nothing
But picking at the teeth of an angry fat man
And in the end
You’ve made his dreams come true
Rejected: Get Used to it, Kid!
So I just received my second rejection. The first was from the Beliot Poetry Journal (which was really sweet of the editor to tell me that although they were going to pass on my “self-confessional PSYCH ward poetic experience” he’s glad I’ve survived all of the things I’ve been through- haha…love that) and the second was from The New Yorker- a different poem entirely.
I won’t lie. The first one stung. Like a bee. Right in the head. (Obviously, it hit the ego more than the heart, but at least I’m aware of this.) What, I have an ego? YES. I frikking have an ego! Guh…it gets old. I’m fairly certain any artist, musician, or writer knows damn well what I’m talking about. There’s a fine line between wanting to share your art and wanting to feed your ego: this is the truth and it’s how it is. As artists, we like to dress things up like that old beast just doesn’t exist and we simply “are driven to create!” but what drives us? If we’re honest, we’ll acknowledge that at least sometimes, it’s the ego. If we’re in denial, we’ll say, “it’s just something I feel I have to do!” (Etc.)
So, there’s always that battle: self vs. art vs. self and striving to be more than simply wanting to get that little stroke that pushes you to your next piece. This is what I’m always thinking of when I submit new art somewhere: what am I searching for? Simply sharing this piece? What is my message? Am I imparting enough of myself in this piece so that people can feel it? I need to be saying something. Yes, the “praise” and the feedback come with the territory- that does feel like a warm, squishy blanket of “acceptance”- sure it does, but I want to know that I’m making an impression on somebody and adding something- no matter how small- to their lives, or the way they think, see, and feel.
Which brings me back to rejection. As in, “rejected by editors”. Maybe I’m a bit of a sadist, but I’m celebrating being rejected. Yes, I’m serious! I was rejected from the New Yorker,-come on…it’s The New Yorker for crying out loud. Being rejected from The New Yorker is a rite of passage. While the first rejection stung (get over yourself, kid!) I was completely elated by the 2nd one. Tickled. Serious tickled, because although I’ve been writing since I was a teenager (poems, songs, short stories, etc.) and have never had any education there at all- even having dropped out of high school in the 10th grade- I’m still acutely aware of my own ignorance as a writer, and, a poet. By claiming total ignorance, I can open my eyes and mind and have the necessary depth to fill in with an education in Creative Writing. Because I’m going into this saying “I know nothing”, I can learn so much more. Ego deflated!
I’ve created a Poem folder on my laptop, and also, a “Rejection” folder. It’s the rejection folder that will drive me in my art and work far more than any other. It’s proof that I have tried and do try and will not stop trying. I’m copying and pasting every rejection into that folder (dated, filed away).
Failure is nothing more than proof that you have tried.
I also entered my first short story competition last night- the top prize is $3,000. That one is going to hurt. Ha. But, it’s being slapped down in life that I have turned into an art form, so, the more rejections I receive (and there will be plenty); the more food for more art. It’s a self-sustaining cycle but one that holds valuable lessons for me, and I cherish them dearly.
Changing Lanes
It’s 6:57 a.m.
I’m listening to Sonata 3 in C Major BWV1005 by Bach and crying over Sylvia Plath.
I’ve been on this Plath kick for almost a year now. I used to be so harsh and judgmental of her. (“Well that’s what she gets for sticking her head into an oven!”) I didn’t understand her, nor did I try to until I read Rough Magic- her biography by Paul Alexander. Sylvia and I share several things in common. We’re both writers (dare I make such a claim?), perfectionistic overachievers, we both lost our children, we both went mad, and we were both locked away in an institution many years ago- having suffered breakdowns halfway through our college majors (and before)- and then immediately dusted ourselves off and jumped right back into the academic ring- no small feat.
I have a new respect for her, and until I began comparing notes, I had no idea how similar our lives were/are. I think she’s one of the most courageous women I’ve ever known. It’s not easy to have a colossal breakdown (pardon the pun) then pick yourself up again and carry on in the faces of all of the inquisitive eyes and naysayers…dream shatterers…
I’ve been reading her recently published (very private) journals, all night in fact. What a privilege to be able to wile away the hours reading her personal diary! I clearly have a fascination with her, but not only that- her poetry is by far, my favourite of anyone’s- Anne Sexton weighing in at close second. For me, nobody can touch these immensely talented and troubled women, who were both personal friends of each other (In fact, they shared a poetry workshop class and Plath admired Sexton greatly) who took their own lives at their own hands.
I read this in Sylvia’s journal earlier, and this is what made me cry:
Remember about the shadow of past knowledge. Write about your own experience. By that experience someone else may be a bit richer some day. Read widely of others experiences in thought and action– stretch to others even though it hurts and strains and would be more comfortable to snuggle back in the comforting cotton-wool of blissful ignorance! Hurl yourself at goals above your head and bear the lacerations that come when you slip and make a fool of yourself. Try always, as long as you have breath in your body, to take the hard way, the Spartan way – and work, work, work to build yourself into a rich, continually evolving entity!
I’m listening, Sylvia. :0)
I received my audit from my University several days ago: my petition to graduate has been accepted and I’m expected to graduate this December on the 7th at the Red Skelton Performing Arts Center. It’s been a long four years! I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to pull off a Behavioral Sciences major- I had to face certain doom and unspeakable tragedy (sexual abuse as a child, institutionalization, the loss of my children, insanity, years of being battered relentlessly by an unforgiving system), but it’s been worth fighting for and I had to prove to myself that I am more than a “label” that has a fancy name of this disorder or that. I will not be defined by a clinical title or even the thought of another person, for I’ve chosen to maximize what I’ve learned in school and minimize the trauma I’ve lived through.
Still, I can’t help but to be heavily influenced by the likes of Plath- she stood up in the face of terror itself and fought as long as she could. But what an incredible talent! I’m going to heed the words in her journal and I’m not going to be ashamed of my past and what I’ve lived through. It’s a miracle just to be alive.
I’ve decided that after I graduate, I’ll transfer over to Southern New Hampshire University, which is a private coed and one of the best schools in New England to work on my BA- not for Criminal Justice- but for Creative Writing with a concentration in Poetry. Plath has inspired me, completely, and has reminded that I’m an artist and a writer, and have been my whole life. I have the skeleton already- which is the passion- but I need the BA in Creative Writing so I can flesh out the bones.
I’m already a starving artist, what will it matter?
Life has been a blur lately of exams, cramming, writing essays and reports: I have 5 weeks to go!
And, I have 5 A’s in all 5 classes still. Go me. :0)
Josh stands in the golden hour sunlight down at the River.
Canon Digital Rebel/Super Takumar 135/3.5 film lens
And Heidi, if you’re reading this, thank you so much for your introduction to Plath at Olive Garden years ago. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t even be doing this whole school thing. xo
We March Like Soldiers
[based on a true story]
For Sean, because I know you understand. xo
We March Like Soldiers
Shuffling forward
We march like soldiers
Invisible chains rattling
That only we can hear
All crammed together
In that box
We jiggle a little
I keep my eyes on the numbers
In that crammed elevator and imagine
That death awaits me at the bottom
Like a gas chamber
Waiting to spit out its last breath
Jiggle
Jiggle
Down we go
To meet a collection of many tables
And glue and sparkly things
I don’t die
There is an exercise bike
And a fat woman rides
Always going
Nowhere
The piano makes me sad
I remember other things
And better days
Before I flew
Out of my mind
But down I sit
My fingers stumble like a bad lover
And I play the song of my life
Wanting only to cry
The crazy people look at me
They are smiling
I smile too- at what
I do not know
But on with the show!
I do not understand
How I got here
Or why
I march outside and watch the worker
Water the flowers
In the burning heat
A man walks in circles
And circles and circles
He is pleased to be talking
With himself
Round and round he goes
A curious machine
That brings
A heavy verdict
He discusses
Heaven and hell
Another jumps up and kicks the wall
Is he real?
Is he an angel? A devil?
Did he come up from a pit?
Did I see bats?
Are they birds?
I watch them fly away
Up and out of the high walls that surround
All of us here on lock down
The sunny workers in the flowered pajamas
Are careful to say lovely things
So we know
We’re sane
I swing and swing
Every day
On that damn bench
That never goes anywhere
Up we go
Jiggle
Jiggle
Back to the halls and walls that are plastered with rules
That we’re supposed to understand
There are smiley faces
That tell us
We are people too
Here on this safe floor with no lighters or sharp metal things
And we wait
Watching the new ones march in
I am uncertain
If I am dead or alive
I go to the bathroom
Shut the door
And try to cry
No tears
The night brings another solemn gathering
Of people standing in line
For the third time
Today
To eat
And snacks too
I am a wild animal in these glass-windowed walls
I do not know how to get out
My eyes are black as mud inside
And my tears have been taken
By terror (the mirror does not lie)
Out I shuffle
With bare feet and no socks
In my spotted gown
Down
The hall
And we all
March like soldiers
And stand in a sad line
To get our pills
Which make us feel
At least for a little while
Like we are sleeping
As we lie awake in this place
Flying out of our minds
– B. Lindsey
(original poem)
Written on 10/28/13
The Birth
The Birth
Eyes squeezed
Liquid
Pours into the mouth
No matter how tight it may be
Murky depths and water
Flood the slitted eyes
Death in its black and hollow cave
Extends a hand, quickly
Slapped back by the light
Which is growing yellow
Fat and bright
Wraps itself around the scene
Like a cobra
Shedding its last skin
The breath which was muted
Comes fast and loud and rough
Eyes burst open
Liquid spills and rolls down little hills
A final sigh as breath is held
Smiles are passed around like Cuban cigars
In the other room
More liquid
Filling and spilling from eyes
The baby cries
-B. Lindsey (original)
9/7/13
m o n o c h r o m e j u n k i e † 