Raw Meat

Sometimes I find my words burrowed beneath my rib cage and sometimes they wonder the neighborhood like a lost dog...waiting to find its scraps and return to safety. Wherever safety might be these days. I think being a poet and writer means you place a heavier value on what you are about to say. Before each word falls from my mouth I've already re-analyzed it three times in my mind (and even sometimes on paper) .

Lately I've had a lot to say but I'm keeping it tucked away. Like Grandmas Ruby ring. Like a wedding fund. Like a picture in my wallet. Why? Because I can't be the one always chasing. Always throwing words to get attention. To show the sincerity of my feelings. It can't always be me giving.

I once referred to words as raw meat. And I still think of that analogy to be true. Sometimes when someone gives me these words (that are to be oh so powerful)  I have to keep turning them over (poking at them to see if they are true, if their actions are proving their words right) to see if they are done yet. If they are safe for eating.  And sometimes they were just right. And sometimes I get a little pink section, or one still oozing with blood letting me know it wasn't ready yet--- And I realize it needs more attention. That it needs to simmer a little longer until it is ready. That I could get sick if If I'm not careful. Will they ever be ready? Fine for eating? Who knows. Realistically. Probably not.  But I wish these words to be safe for eating someday. Even if it means taking a risk.  I'm tired of poking.  Sometimes you just want someone to serve you up something you can believe in. Someone  to bring their all to the table, to share it with you, and you know everything will be just right. 

IMG_7840.JPG

The fire of Grief.

I don't think we ever get used to losing people. Whether planned or taken by accident.  There's no safety manual for how to operate grief. No easy recipe on how to come out smelling good. It will no doubt come in waves.  Ones that knock the breath out of your chest, and ones that almost drown you.   But never ones that wash your grief clean. 

I'm in the planning stages of a podcast on Trauma Based Leadership, or rather a significant event that threw you into a firey journey. The more I experience grief the more I think about my work in this podcast. 

What do Spider-Man, Joe Biden, and MADD (Mothers against Drunk Driving) all have in common? Each of those people lost a loved one, and then they put their grief to work.  They piled it into a bag, threw it over their shoulder, and walked out the door into the world. They did something with it. They didn’t let it sit idly and hope that ‘someday’ time would heal the wound. Because time doesn't heal all wounds---that I know. 

When we are wounded at the most intimate level of how we identify ourselves in our lives  in the world (as family, Moms, fathers, sisters, brothers, sons, daughters and friends), we have a choice— to let the heat of the fire burn us down to nothing and become a pile of ash-meaningless and forgotten about or to consume ourselves in the energy that blazes from that fire and rise with it. 

There were many times where I chose to keep myself warm with Ashes surrounding me. Where I'd waste half of my day laying in the corner of couch saying "why me"?

But now. But Now. I rise.  Or at least I try too.

Yesterday my uncle was killed in a car accident.  He was the brother to my dad.  I know family's experience trauma. I get it. We are complex systems. But I feel as if my family has been dealt quite the hand. Not only did my Grandma lose her son today, she also lost her other son (My Dad) many years ago leaving only her one son left now. But that's not all, as 2/3 of her grandsons also have died, Aaron was killed in a robbery in 2000 and Justin (my brother) died of an abscess in his throat just last year at only the age of 30. 

Nothing makes grief any easier. 

You and I, we didn’t ask for these experiences of loss we’ve received, for fuck sake I've had plenty this year. But if you change your perspective  it is still a gift and its yours – and you can’t give it back (I tried), and you can’t re-gift it (nobody wants it) but you can choose how you want to use its energy. It’s a gift with immense power that if you don’t harness it and put action to it, you will be on the other end of it becoming ash by its untamed supremacy and invincibility.

This is your superpower. Your fucking thing.

Taking action and being an active participant in your healing doesn’t mean founding your own nonprofit or going viral in your plea for help, attending 109 therapy sessions, or starting your own podcast about your healing. It simply means showing up sometimes.  It means, every day you take one small action towards healing. Maybe today it’s taking a deep breath while taking a cleansing bath with some lavender. Maybe tomorrow it’s a walk outside on a trail by the river, and maybe the next day you invite a friend for coffee. And maybe the the next your first therapy session. And maybe the first year it's just sharing your story and pain with a stranger.  You start from where you are with the pure and sole intention of becoming part of the rising of your fire. 

When you do those small things a shift in power happens, where your grief does not consume you. Where you are no longer at the mercy of its strength. When you try even in the smallest ways....It instead shifts your energy to manifest beautiful changes in your life and the greater world around you. 

Remember when you share your story with a stranger today, you aren't just talking....you are choosing to rise.  

It comes in the smallest of ways. And so I rise. With these words, today, to you.  I rise. 

 

http://wjactv.com/news/local/coroner-called-to-fatal-accident-on-rt-271

IMG_1018.JPEG

Thats not how our song goes.

Andrea Gibson says

"The winter I told you I think icicles are magic,

you stole an enormous icicle from a neighbors shingle

and gave it to me as a gift

I kept it in my freezer for seven months

until the day I hurt my foot

and needed something to reduce the swelling

Love isn't always magic

sometimes it's just melting

or it's black and blue

where it hurts the most."

 

Shes right. Love isn't always magic. It isn't always on time. Or easy.  Love is ugly crying. And falling down many times. It's misfires. And I told you so's. And you aren't hearing mes. It's no time for self care. It's giving up some things we love. It is backs pressed against each other in the night. Silent car rides. It is therapist visits. Awkward silence. Strangers passing through hallways. It doesn't always look like those wedding highlight reels. Like walks by the lake. Like diamond rings. Like romance or effortless hair wisps. Like the Notebook. It's not grand gestures, candles and roses, or carefree dispositions. It's ugly. It is messy. And sometimes, not cute hair bun messy.

But love IS too. There are so many things love is. Like pink cotton candy skies. Singing in the car. Knowing exactly how she takes her coffee. Like being proud to call her yours. Like sweet voices when you are sick. Like shareable popcorn at the movies. Like bad day hugs. Like finding a tree together growing through a rock. Like cards in hidden places.  Like a whole gallon of ice cream where you fight over finding the chunks. Love is humble and kind. And it shows up when you need it the most, in the smallest ways. Love just is. 

And I've been thinking a lot about what love is recently. In fact I ran across this Huffington Post article the other day: I Didn’t Love My Wife When We Got Married. The writer is an orthodox Jew, but no, that doesn’t mean that he is writing about being pushed into an arranged marriage or anything similar. Rather, he writes about the difference between the intense emotions he felt when he got married and the deeper, truer love he feels for his wife when they serve each other throughout the years...when they balance it all out. The more I thought about it the more I realized how growing latitudes together can create a love far greater then that romanticized wedding day feeling. When we grow into a deeper love, it's hard to ever fall out of love. Because you've both finally got it. That balance. That exploration of each other. That deeper understanding.

And love. Oh love. It doesn't always come as soon as it’s called. Or wake up every morning at  the exact same, dedicated and patient.  But eventually you figure it out.  You come back to each other. 

The truth is this very thing right here:

The act of love is easy,” It is simple to see a person, to feel strongly for them, to want to be by their side, to want to give them everything. “It’s loving that’s hard. 

If you aren't ready for the loving, you aren't ready for love.  There is no room at the table for just love.  To love is to know loving. 

IMG_0764.JPG

Slower.

I don't know how to make my heart beat slower.

It's as if it's always trying to catch up with my mind.

My heart is a race a car.

A falling raindrop.

A hawk at sunrise.

Fast and gone.

It doesn't know how to love softly. It is fierce. A lightning bolt.  A car crash.

It only knows how to love you with everything it is.

It screams your name likes it is the principal and you've skipped class again, like you are late for dinner and I am finally calling you home.

Finally calling you home. 

IMG_6755.JPG

Available

Even water takes a break from always giving. There is nothing like the stoppage of "falling" to remind me that this year I will only be available to those who make themselves available to me. @ohioexplored @naturalohio@poettreeteeco#travelgram #2018 #poet #poetrycommunity #nature #water #weallfalldown #travelblogger #parks #hockinghills #explore #potd #love #winter #tradition #soulfire 

IMG_0882.JPG
IMG_0869.JPG
IMG_0865.JPG
IMG_0802.JPG
IMG_0814.JPG

Tradition.

Here in Hocking writing away my little heart.  

I read somewhere that Meghan Markle's (The Princes fiancé) New Years Resolutions were to stop biting her nails and swearing so much. Maybe that's the "nice version" but that was like my New Years Resolution when I was 10. It's funny that as we grow older how much "harder" it is to resolve the pieces of us we promise to. The weight is harder to lose, the routines are not as easy to break, and memories we once never thought of as a kid have now risen from suppression attic into full fledge anxieties, struggles, or fears.  And those struggles are the things that keep us stuck, often. But in reality, it can also be those things that set us free.  In reading Brene Brown's book Daring Greatly she suggest that "Courage starts with showing up and letting ourselves be seen".  So those things that we've once hidden, the weight we are so ashamed of, the habits that maybe aren't the best, those need to be seen too. (Please if you eat your boogers, that doesn't have to be seen, but you know---those pieces of us we are ashamed to show others). And yes...of course, it's good habit to always work on ourselves to be better humans, better friends, better neighbors, better omelette makers and wintry drivers. But we mustn't forget that there is no shame in letting our weight (metaphorically) also be seen.  For so long I have hidden who I was, what I struggled with, and the obstacles in my life that honestly molded me into who I am and what I care so passionately about. This was so that I could appear strong and in control on the outside and never be seen as weak or disorganized---which is how I felt on my inside.  While I haven't fixed myself over the past year or figured out how to be amazing, thin, or less anxious...I have figured out how to be me, and all the happy and sometimes scary that comes with that. I can honestly say I didn't know how to be me, and how to stop apologizing for it. It took being traumatically shut out and hurt (during the one time I was authentically vulnerable) to realize that I shouldn't have to apologize for being who I am. And that someone who truly loved me would not accept my apologies, but rather tell me to keep them and instead ask questions to understand my ways, my fears, my not so flattering "dress".  Some days it's really easy to be me.  Some days it's really hard. Some days I don't even deserve a participation trophy. Other days I think I deserve a gold medal for merely not spilling my coffee.  And those other days, when it's easy. Easy to be me, and easy to be loved by others.  It's those days when I look around and see who's still there. Who's weathered my storm with me and who's standing on the sunny side still cheering me on to win the race (Even though I am a horrible runner).

So maybe I didn't lose all the weight I wanted to this past year. And I probably won't lose all the weight I want to this year. And maybe I still get anxiety, but maybe I understand my triggers more and feel comfortable enough now to share them with others without apologizing (because it's okay to not always have to be the strong one). And the truth is I probably won't succeed at half of my resolutions. But that's okay. "Because true belonging only happens when we present our authentic, imperfect selves to the world, our sense of belonging can never be greater than our level of self-acceptance.” (Brown).

So who fixers the fixers when we are broken? Nobody. Nobody is ever all healed. All perfect. All good. So, this year start making a "Imperfect New Years Resolution List". And when you fail, when you only fulfill half of it. Wear your failures like a favorite sweater. Button them right into you. Because who we are is nothing to be ashamed of.  And know that a 50% success rate is nothing to be ashamed of, because the other 50% is where you can find your authentic you.

 

Happy New Year Yinz guys.  Have a soulfire kind of year. 

Pancakes soon, 

 

xoxo.  

IMG_0693.JPG
IMG_0683.JPG
IMG_0666.JPG
IMG_0680.JPG
IMG_0651.JPG
IMG_0630.JPG
IMG_0670.JPG

Out with the old.

I think the end of the year is a perfect time to review ourselves as well as others that we've chosen to invite to our table. If there is anything I've learned over the past year, it's the value of love. Both how big, and how little it can be. It shows up in days of time. It shows up in phone calls. How can you measure love? In Daylights, in cups of coffee, sureeeee. But really? How do you measure the depth of someone's -love? A question I'm sure we often wonder about. Much like how do we measure happiness or success? Is success money, or living another day? To me, saying "I love you, I'm always going to love you, you're my person, or soul fire, or soulmate"---can be measured easily. It's in consistent actions. We can measure love in actions. It's as simple as that. When we show up-we show our truth of words. We measure love In texts. In checking up on our friends. In r spect. In phone calls. In reaching out during hardship. In quality time. In acts of kindness. In service. In consistency of actions. Can you say to others that you have showed up in those ways to support your words? Were your words just lip service that just served you temporarily? Did your actions show up when you no longer benefited?  Did your actions show up not just when it was convenient for you? If you feel as if you lacked some alignment of words and actions this year---take a chunk of time and draw a map out of three actions that might support what you are promising to another, whether lover or friend.  If you can't support the words that fall from your lips with three consistent actions---Don't say them. Keep them. Because most likely that other person really will believe you. Because good people were born that way. Born to believe that those around us will show up in the ways they promised....because that's what we'd do. We'd show up. Because we meant what we said.  If you can't be consistent---Check your words at the door, before you walk into someone's life and shake it up year after year. Be that good lover. Be that good friend. Hell, just be good. It's the least we can do to for each other. Just, be, good.  Being anything else just isn't enough.


Three squeezes.

IMG_0559.JPG