You name it

At home, I keep this space clear on my dresser, in case my old cat jumps the gap from the bed to that spot.  And back again.  Like she used to.

At the hotel, I request a microwave for my room.  Popcorn for one.  I pretend to savor this time alone.
 
What am I missing?

A little orange cat, strong arms, sweet nothings.

You name it.

Dreams

Lately my dreams arrive with biblical bumper stickers.

My father's house has many rooms.
A little child shall lead them.

After a long hiatus, I'm back to dreams in which I liberate children who've been wrongfully imprisoned under false pretenses.  Often a teenage girl and her little brother.  I might become the girl escaping with the brother, with help that arrives from outside.  It's fluid, it's a dream.

Two years ago, in an unforgettable dream, a savior pulls up in a 1970s station wagon just when we need him.  He helps us get away from that awful institution in a hurry.  He's young, he's handsome, he's kind, he's strong, and he's existentially good.

He hands me a business card and says, with a smile of pure light:

"I am from the Church of the Northern Star..."

Since then I've felt that I have access to real help, the kind I need, when I really need it.

Mostly Blue

her colors are mostly blue 
devoted, I fine-sort these hues

she is a black child, with eyes so blue I gasp
she will echo every admiring word
then she will laugh and hug my neck

this is the best feeling I've had
in so long
both of us laughing

in later dreams
she is with missionaries
and not where she belongs

this is a deep game
to know this girl belongs with me
if I can bring her home
 
















 

So and So

I love you. So?

I love you so.

eclipsed

shadow on the moon 
you will not last

lush darkness has its time 
crossing my heart

then I am bright again
some call it beautiful

but all this beaming
isn't me

i never shine
until caressed by light

Lighten up

Today, things feel lighter than they've felt in a long time.  That gap between the life I'm living and the life I think I want isn't large.  I can't point to anyone or anything that needs to transform in order for "happiness" to occur, not even myself.  Funny how things change most noticeably when I stop wishing they would change.  I'm not even sure I want to be "happy" in the sense of smiling all the time.  Mostly I want to be human and let myself feel all my feelings without pretense or shame.

I've tried on some attitudes these last few years.  Jealous competitor.  Angry feminist.  Snarky reviewer.  Unrequited lover.  Underappreciated artist.  I don't regret trying these energies, and they're still aspects of my soul and my ongoing story, but they don't function or fit as prolonged strategies for dealing with life. 

When I think of words people have used to describe me, the ones that I most wanted to be true when I heard them were: "kind," "authentic," "genuine," "brave" and "goofy."  

Clever, intelligent, accomplished, funny, witty ... these not so much.   There's no resonance when I hear these words, like there is with the first list.   

I will explore areas where I sense energy is already beckoning, if that makes any sense, where grace seems to activate in my life or where it's been pulling me.  Every time I go with the river instead of pushing it something synchronistic happens.  Something like a breakthrough or a confirmation of my path occurs.  

the skinny

I've gained back all the weight I lost two years ago, when I was pining away.  Now I will be present, available, at home, and fat.  Love is abiding, though it ebbs and flows.  Love can wait, and keep on waiting, tapping its foot like a customer in line.  

I'm reading "The life-changing magic of tidying up."  I'm to hold each object and ask myself: "does this spark joy?"  I'm to keep only those items that spark joy.  This is the KonMari method.  One client ended up letting go of a husband using the KonMari method.  I have let go of 15 bags of clothing.  Next I will tackle the books.  Love can be honest with itself, if it must.  It may be limitless, but there are limits.