It’s the closest thing I’ve felt to death.
5 days of labor and pushing and pain and sweat and utter exhaustion.
Hours of almost readiness, a champ in the ring, waiting for her trophy.
And he arrives, at a perfect Godly time with absolute intention.
He comes uncracked, unwrinkled; life hasn’t stamped her good ol’ reality check on his skin. Not yet.
Why do we cry? How does it crack our hearts wide open?
We’ve all traveled this channel too. We have got to be as perfect, as divine, as uncracked?
Somewhere underneath. Right?
Clouds hiding the sun, type of shit. Right?
A son. A nephew. A gift.
A BAR. NIGHT.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
He leans in throwing caution to the wind this time.
She tilts her head back and guffaws.
He repeats his line, thinking it’ll be funny the second time.
It isn’t, but she stares into his eyes just the same.
Complex everything, this woman. Like a cat.
He looks away with a smirk – she’s into me.
He takes a swig of his scotch, cool like that, and asks for the check, “It’s on me,” he tells her.
Her red, half full.
“You heading out,” she asks.
“I thought we could, uh…” he smirks.
She stares at him. That cat again.
He smiles at her.
“I’m going to finish my wine.”
“Sure. I’ll, uh,” he sits back down.
“Cheers,” she says as she sips her red.
Silence, even if it’s only for a few minutes
I come to,
Coming out of Salvador Dali dreams
I am peeking my eyes open, like a secret unfolding
I am breathing in the long night’s pillows and blankets
The smells of Dreamlandia
Silly, inconsequential memories arise
Like counting sheep
These dreams are colors, shapes, and the strangest of narratives
I believe them all
Like a child, all in
Scary yet familiar
Like Terminator; a stranger within a friend
Metal on vulnerable skin,
Oh silence, I salute you.
Fog, sleepy sun, empty streets
The greenery outside stretches their limbs from the long night
Yes, here’s the in-between
Here’s the gray
When the inner Self approaches and softly whispers to the soul,
“Today is a gift.”
Every day has its dawn,
Its soft and silent eve,
Its noontide hours of bliss and bale; —
Why should we grieve?
Why do we heap huge mounds of years
Before us and behind,
And scorn the little days that pass
Like angels on the wind?
Each, turning round a small, sweet face
As beautiful as near,
Because it is so small a face
We will not see it clear.
We will not clasp it as it flies,
And kiss its lips and brow:
We will not bathe our wearied souls
In its delicious Now.
And so it turns from us, and goes
Away in sad disdain;
Though we could give our lives for it,
It never comes again.
Yet, every day has its dawn,
It’s noontide and its eve:
Live while we live, giving God thanks—
He will not let us grieve.
February’s Moon is traditionally called the Snow Moon because usually the heaviest snows fall in February. This name dates back to the Native Americans during Colonial times when the Moons were a way of tracking the seasons. And the Native Americans were right. On average, February is the USA’s snowiest month, according to data from the National Weather Service.
Ok, sweet Snow Moon, here goes:
I let go of unnecessary weight
I let go of dark energy
I let go of stagnation.
I cultivate cave days!
I cultivate creative growth during hibernation
I cultivate elephant pace, royal grace.
FADE IN: a woman at the mic in a bar.
I just woke up one day and thought, “I don’t want to do this anymore.” It hit me like a ton of bricks. I wanted to kill my supervisor, is what I wanted to do. And the only reason why I haven’t already done so is cuz I can’t drive my new car in jail.
Yup, I shop.
I’m a complete consumer and I described that as poverty deprivation.
“I need that because it’s going to do something wonderful to my life,” or “Ooooooh, that’s shiny” or “Oh, I know that’ll come in handy one day.”…. and then that shit just sits there. The Amazon Echo Dot? Don’t get it. Waste of your time and money.
What I want is travel and to do things that don’t pertain to products.
I want experiences.
I want to face fears and follow my gut.
I want the Unknown, even though it scares the Holy BeJesus outta me.
But right now
I can’t because I’m always in poverty deprivation, buying and buying and buying.
There’s a calling inside of me.
I can feel it.
But the not knowing makes me cling to what is tangible, the little things that bring little comfort right now, and eventually finds itself in my garage.
In a box. With a box, within a box.
I’m 50 years old.
Someone is pressing fast forward on my recorder, man.
I feel a calling.
A tiny voice,
And I wanna bring that to life.
I need to think outside the box.
Get out of the garage inside my head.
Step away from my computer, and outside my door.
Take some Unknown steps.
Yup, that’s me.