Songs of Healing

The early light of dawn stole through the mouth of the cave sooner than she was prepared for. The summer was taking it's time in coming this year and Daylin found no comfort in the waiting. Summer was the time of action and movement, it was her favorite season of life and with each passing year she looked expectantly to the beginning of warmth from the Great Father. Trying to shake the headache from last night's healing she rolled over in her pallet and tried to sleep. The winter had brought illness to the People unlike anything she had ever encountered. Even the animals stirred with desperation and rage. Though she was young for her standing in the community, she had a power not seen in the lifetime of any tribal leaders. Daylin was beloved by the children, respected by the women and feared by the men. The warriors especially, always seemed to fear what they did not know, and her strength in battle and capacity for healing in one so young gave cause for concern. There was wildness about her, the way she wore her hair, long and free from the braids commonly worn by the women of age. She had refused the traditional and ritualistic ways of the people to find her own path in the Great Journey. There was a restlessness about her which was unusual for a woman. Driven by unexplained passion she kept herself apart, she lived alone, in her own dwelling. She hunted her own food, and refused at The Age to couple and bear children. Some of the men believed the force of her power was driving her mad, others, especially the tribal leaders, felt she was growing into a great shaman, probably the greatest the tribe had seen for many generations. Only the Great Father knew what plans he had for them and for her, and so they watched and waited.
Unable to sleep she sat up slowly. Nausea filled her body and she cringed as she slid the bearskin blanket off of her body. The damp chill of the air made her shiver and she swallowed hard with her eyes closed trying to not vomit. Keeping her breathing slow and steady she reached for her medicine bag that had once belonged to her grandmother. Feeling her way inside the pockets and through the remnants of her herbs she found the incense she was looking for. It was a short braid of three dried cords of willow grass, each chord being harvested at a different time of season. Combined together, in the way of the elders just like her grandmother had taught her when she was just a girl. One end of the braid was charred from previous burning and before she thought to light a fire or straighten her mussed clothes she knelt. Lighting the chord briefly and then extinguishing the flame she inhaled the smell. Holding the incense in folded hands just below her chin she began to sing softly in her throat. It was a song she had learned from her grandmother; it was a song of gratitude to the Great Father. Thankfulness for the sunrise, the earth below her and the life of all things. It's hard to be agitated when you hold gratitude in your heart and on mornings like these when she was worn and sick she needed to be reminded that the Great Journey is the gift of the Father. Slowly she felt the tingle of healing in her body, as if a current of energy was pulling her upward, up from the pit of her stomach through her chest and out the top of her head. Her eyes began to slightly water and as she lifted her bowed head toward the ceiling of the cave. Daylin exhaled breathing out the side effects of her tasks the night before her headache dissipated and she, although tired and weary began to ready herself for the day ahead.
Walking hurriedly through the camp she made her way to the sacred circle, there was a meeting of the tribal council this morning to decide what to do about the feral bear that was encroaching on the camp. Two young ones had been mauled quite severely yesterday afternoon and she was not sure that either of them would survive. The casting and laying of hands that it took to heal their wounds, even partially, was more than she had bargained for. If there was a scouting party to be sent looking for the beast she was determined that she would go. There would be objections of course, especially from the warriors who did not like her. Whether they liked her or not she cared little, they would need her; perhaps that's why they resented her. The foresight was strong in her. That ability to connect with animals, to feel their energy and spirit and understand their hearts. It was as if she was looking through their eyes and feeling their bodies. She paused just outside the ring of stone pillars that made the sacred circle, taking a deep breath and straightening her leather tunic she remembered she had not bothered to comb out her hair from the previous night's tossing restless sleep. Amnon, the tribal chief, would not be pleased to see her in such disarray. He could never understand why she insisted on not following tribal custom, even in the simplest form. Daylin hated to see him displeased, he was becoming a sort of father figure to her and she wanted him to be proud of her. She was determined, however, to find her own way. Stepping into the circle she realized that the council had been waiting for her arrival. Seated around a welcoming fire, they were all present, and she, bowing to each in turn at last seated herself beside the only other woman to hold a place on the council. Avra was an elder, the head of the women's circle and the voice of calmness and reassurance among the young men. Amnon spoke first, trying to keep the annoyance from his voice.
"Welcome Daylin, to the gathering." Avra could sense the irritation behind the formal welcome and a mischievous grin stole across her old and wrinkled face. Some of the men who sat opposite Daylin glared disapprovingly at her appearance, but sitting rigidly with her knees underneath her, she lifted her chin to meet their gaze head on. Stoic in her resolution to prove her equality, the look in her eyes added to the wildness of her unkempt appearance and some of the men visibly trembled to meet her gaze.
"I am honored to be welcomed into the sacred circle."

Convoluted Desire

There have been perfect moments in my marriage. I musn't forget. I musn't forget he is like no other. Not that that changes anything. Still it should. I am suspended, upended, waiting, always waiting for his attentions. When I'm alone, which seems to be often- a coarser soul might say the marriage will falter because we are apart so much; not true- I try to dissect what is is about him that makes him so elusive. I never come up with anything, other than that he is an entity unto himself. I play games sometimes to try to trick him into swooning love, hell-bent love. Pretend, I tell him, that you are kissing me like they do in the movies. Pretend, I tell him, that every time you see me you want to fall to your knees and kiss the hem of my skirt.
But for all my song and dance there are those unscripted moments. They are fleeting now, and few. He got a buzz haircut once and came home, transformed, boyish, burying his head in my lap with excitement. I also learned once, quite by accident, that he thinks it's boring to dance to the beat of slow songs.
But it is in darkness that we have had our best times. The middle of the night. Maybe we just need darkness to free ourselves into. His disembodied voice would tell me secrets, his secrets. He told me he didn't he didn't like his mother, that her love disgusted him. I held my breath then, afraid she and I might meld in his mind in the dark. But he said I was different, that there is a coldness in me that he finds reassuring. I wanted to correct him, tell him it was heat, that I am burning up for him, but I didn't dare. Then with dawn and him turning away to sleep, it seemes as if our confessions evaporated. On those mornings I would badger him, try to build on secrets told, but you can't force these things. That I never seem to learn.
I want. I want. I want. And when he bows toward me, and places me in the center of his thoughts, his affections, I feel sick with nerves, waiting for him to spring away again. I gnash my teeth and remind my self of the loves that have loved obviously and how deathly that is. I remind myself not to question Fate. I remind myself that nobody ever said marriage was natural. Pavlovian it is, and I, having grown up never knowing the habit, am probably sniffing at the wrong door looking for the biscuit.




"I bet he just can't cope. I imagine expectations were betrayed. Perhaps she did love him because he was clean and then she found his house was dirty. Or it could have been the lovemaking. Hard to be married so quickly, then make yourself believe that you know the man on top of you. But that's impossible too, isn't it."....Bex Brian

A letter from our dear, sweet friends Loren and Penny Hollingsworth

Dear Loved Ones, So many have written and I want to let you know how much we appreciate your love and concern. It has really meant so much to us. I'm writing this about 8:41 pm and don't know if I will finish it tonight or tomorrow as I am totally bushed. This is Tue. evening. We spent the morning at the government hospital in the wards talking to people and trying to help where ever we could. So many people have brought in clothes, food, supplies and are trying to help. It is all so sad and emotionally draining more than I can even explain.

Loren talked to a man who was sitting in a chair that said he lost his two young children and his wife. They died. I talked to a woman from Germany who had a terrible cut across one eye and her nose which had been stitched up and she said her husband was missing and she had no clothes, passport etc. A lady I talked to from Sweden said the same thing. They were in pain and shock and everyone was like that. Loren talked to a young girl who had lost both of her parents. People were trying to contact Embassy officials, find out when they could go home etc. We helped dress people with broken legs and broken arms as there are not enough nurses to do anything but the essentials. These people were in wards of about 40 people. All the hospitals are full (hope we don't need one anytime soon).

I have never seen anything like it and hope I never will again.

Most these people have not had a bath or been able to wash, had no clothes, shoes, etc. We plan on going back tomorrow to help more and follow up on what we tried to do today. Because everyone is so busy it is difficult for those who can help to get back to those who are desperately waiting for information and help. We've seen dead bodies and understand that there are more out of town on the roads that haven't even been picked up yet.

This afternoon we went to Patong Beach to help our deaf Christians clean up there shops. Everything was a muddy, stinky mess but their spirits were good. One couple lost everything in their store but hope to wash t-shirts etc. and sell them cheap for a little income. The beach itself was beautiful today with many tourist walking up and down the streets looking at the damage and some walking the beaches. The damage is all across the street from the beach where the stores were demolished along with cars, pickups and boats. Everyone was out trying to clean up their stores, rescue what ever could be salvaged. It all looked like a battle field and smelled like it too. They say there are still bodies buried under some of the rubble.

Since we live in Phuket City which is over the mountain from the beaches we experienced the earthquake around 8:05 Sun. morning. Loren and a friend had gone to Patong Beach to hold Sun. morning services with our deaf Christians who live over there and I was at home getting ready for services here. The quake seemed to last a long time to me and I didn't think we had experience any structural damage (since our building isn't built too well that was the first thing I thought of) and so figured maybe there would be damage from the quake somewhere else but not here. Turned out that the whole of Thailand experienced the quake it was such a big one. Anyway Loren came home and said he didn't feel it and taught his Bible class. Before it was over a girl who worked at a hotel called for someone to pick her up (she said she wanted to repent she wasn't ready to die) as there had been a huge wave and everyone had fled the hotel and she was scared. Loren and some others went to find her and couldn't (until about 9pm). In the meantime one of the deaf Christians came in to say his wife was missing. She had gotten on a motorcycle to go check their shop and when she saw the huge wave coming she jumped off the motorcycle and ran and he couldn't find her. We searched all the hospitals and couldn't find her. Finally at 4pm someone called to say she was all right. How thankful we were. Anyway in the process of checking hospitals our eyes were opened to the disaster we were hearing about. People were inside, outside all over and ambulances coming and going. Since then they have been flying helicopters and planes in and out trying to get injured people to Bangkok and home. Little did I know that morning after the quake what was really going to happen. We never know do we?

Anyway I hope I haven't written too much and some of it may be a repeat of information for some. Right now our death count is over 1,000 and there will be a lot more I think that haven't turned up yet. If you have food, clothing, a roof over your head and your loved ones around you, count your blessings. So many lost so much in a matter of seconds.

Thanks again for your love and concern of us, the Christians here and the people who are struggling with difficulties of unbelievable proportions. Time for me to go to bed. Tomorrow will be another long day I am sure.

Love to all, Penny &Loren
Phuket 83000
Thailand

Act two

"When he looks in her eyes he sees only the truth,
telling him he's been living a lie.
Over and over like a line in a song,
about all the love he let pass him by."*

She steps out of the club into the halo of light beaming down from the street lamp. Paused in front of the door, she is playing the scene over in her mind. It was his eyes. She felt something as soon as she looked into his eyes. Chemistry. Sparks that ignite the body on fire. Taking a deep breath and moving toward the curb to hail a cab she realises that her heart is beating wildly in her chest and her hands are sweaty. It's been a while since she's felt moved by the sensuality of a common glance. Probably because glances like that are rare, precious moments in our lives.
His eyes...
As she settles into the taxi she can't seem to stop thinking about the man sitting at the bar. His features, the way that he watched her. She felt him when she walked past him to her table, a tingle and goose bumps on her skin. She felt childish, but then again, like I said, it's been a while. She wanted to dance tonight, to feel the beat of the music rising from the dance floor like mists comming from the water on a cold morning by the ocean. She wanted to feel the strength and gentleness of hands around her waist, on the small of her back. Held tightly in and embrace as they sway in tandem, a perfect partnership.
"Why didn't he approach me?"
She walks slowly up the stairs to her apartment deep in thought. The air is cool and she hurries to get inside out of the cold, out of the silence and darkness of the night. Inside she flicks on the lamp in her bedroom, greeted only by the purring of her cat and the scent of lilies purchased that morning. Loneliness steals into her heart as she plops on the bed, another night alone. There are tears behind her eyes waiting to spill out, but she checks them. Instead she runs herself a bath seeking the comfort and caress of the warm water on her skin...

"To her he might be the man of her dreams,
to find what she's been hiding inside.
Broken and battered it really don't matter,
her heart's like a wave and he's the tide."*

She walks to the corner of the room and stands in front of the full length mirror. Her shoulders are slumped and have not the confidence of the previous hours. She pulls in her abdomen, stands straight and turns slightly to get a side view. Checking the line and fall of her dress and the style of her hair.
"What didn't he like?"
She sighs and her hands are trembling slightly as she unzips her dress. She pays attention to the sensual feel of the silk as it falls to the floor. That was one of the main reasons that she purchaced this particular gown, the softness and the gentle way that it laid against her hips. Standing now in her black lace bra and matching french cut panties, the silk stockings, bought especialy for the occasion and the stilletos. She turns again from side to side looking at the figure in the mirror. First with arms down and then with them lifted trying to get an objective view of her ever aging body. She removes the chopsticks that held her hair loosely arranged in an upsweep and it falls in fairy-like curls around her shoulders. She unclasps her bra and slides the underwear off. Bending to unbuckle the diamond ankle straps of her favorite shoes and off come the stockings.
It's a hard thing for a woman to confront herself this way. Totaly nude, with nothing to hide the flaws behind. Sometimes reality can be a harsh task master and we find ourselves the recipient of an emotional beating.
The gentle, delicate hands run lightly over her forhead and the corners of her eyes. Laugh lines.
They move over the skin of her neck and through her hair.
Gray ones.
Down over her breasts and stomach and over the curve of the hips. It's a road map she is so familiar with. The stomach is a little pouty, the breasts not quite as firm or round as they were years ago. Thighs that were once rock hard are not now. She moves her hands around and down the small of her back over her backside. She turns her back to the mirror and lifts one leg with her toes pointed flexing a calf. She can feel her hair sway on her shoulders and the cat rubbing in and around her ankles. She tries to imagine herself through his eyes. His eyes...

"They remember too much about what went wrong-
it might be they should learn to forget.
Forget themselves in eachother,
and leave what was wrong in the past.
Carry their hearts like a new born child,
'cause it's only the moment that lasts."*

She slips naked between the sheets of her bed, warm and relaxed from her bath. She is tired and dreamy, and yawns with her eyes closed. Another night alone. "Work tommorrow, grocery shopping, cat food, laundry...His eyes... I wish he would have asked me to dance."

"They're not forever, just for today.
One part be my lover,
one part go away."*







*Bonnie Raitt/M. O'Keefe "one part be my lover"

My soul flows in grief and today, I have no words...

Ballet

The room was dimly lit and she was nervous as she walked through the door. Soft bluesy jazz and the smell of liquor filled the air. She stood near the bar for a few seconds gathering her confidence about her...

You can tell a lot about a woman by the way she walks. Watch the gentle sway of the hips and the way that each foot moves slightly to center as they progress forward. The delicateness of a petite ankle resting precariously upon a stilleto heel. Perfectly proportioned toes with the nails painted red. It seems such an unatural aspect for the eyes and yet, it demands attention. Notice too the rythmic swing to the arms and the gracefulness with which the hands clutch a tiny jeweled purse. The set of the shoulders and the slope of the neck outlined with wisps of silky hair. See the position of her chin; slightly, ever so slightly pointed down and tilted as if asking an unanswerable question. It's like a ballet really, watching a woman walk. Can you see it? Do you hear the music as she passes you on the street or in the resturaunt?

...she finds a quiet table toward the back of the club, a disctreet distance from the dance floor, tucked in a tiny corner of the room. The waitress brings a drink that was bought by a man at the bar. She turns and smiles a polite thank you, uncomfortable in the thought of being noticed. She sits alone at the tiny table made for just two. The deep blue silk of her dress glides slightly up her thighs as she crosses her legs. One foot beautifuly dangles above the hardwood floor and unconciously begins to move to the sultry cadence of the lead singer's voice. She lightly rests her hands on her lap and closing her eyes, listens to the music...

Would you approach her? Would you ask her to dance or buy her a drink? Or would you give her some generic, over-used pickup line? You want to watch her, you think about touching her and the softness of her skin. You imagine the smell of her hair. So, what do you do? You're thinking about it, I can tell.

...a few minutes go by and she starts to play with the hair at the back of her neck, twirling it about her fingers. The silouete of her cheek and earlobe set the stage for the sparkle of her diamond earings. She shifts her weight on the chair and uncrosses her legs leaving her thighs somewhat exposed from the previous position. So as she recrosses the other leg it slides just a bit more up her thigh. Her head is tilted down now as if she's thinking while she looks at her hands. Appearing to hear something out of the ordinary she turns and looks at the man who bought her drink. Her brows are knit together and a corner of her mouth is drawn up into not quite the polite smile she wore earlier. Her shoulders are small and delicate and as she scans the bar you notice for the first time her eyes. Round and childlike they draw you in. Long black lashes and a perfectly arched brow frames them. When her stare finaly rests on you, you tingle all over. The eyes are the window to the soul and for a brief moment she saw into the whole of you. She parts her lips; they are full and red and wear just a hint of that little girl pout, as if to say something and then simply smiles. Turning and relaxing back into her chair she is still smiling and her foot continues it's swaying to the music. After a while, as the smile leaves her face, she stands. Her graceful slender fingers holding her purse. She lifts her head and lets the hem line of her dress fall to it's rightful place and as she takes her first few steps it sways with her. She walks past where you sit at the bar, she knows you are watching and she somehow is not as nervous as she was when she came in. She stands in the doorway and pauses briefly, her head turns ever so slightly in your direction and yet she chooses to not make eye contact a second time. Gathering her confidence about her she steps into the light...

You can tell a lot about a woman by the way that she walks. Did you hear the music as she passed by?

If wishes were horses...

I wish I lived in a house made of books, that would be heaven on earth for me.
My bed could be a giant volume of all the classic works covered with sheets designed in pasley words and a patchwork comforter of all my favorite comics.
I could start the morning with a shower. Letters of all different fonts would fall delicately over my body and puddle at my feet. Maybe one of the vowels could be my loofa, and when I'm done I could wrap myself in the warmth and comfort of a well turned phrase.
For breakfast I could have sliced bannannas on my favorite similie or eat a few raw metaphores at lunch with exclamation points that I use like chopsticks.
After dinner I could settle down in the family room and instead of watching television I could read the pages of my couch.
And when I am tired I could go to bed again and dream...

Let Me In

I love the part in fairy tales that's very near the end,
when all the kingdom cheer for their new queen.
And all is well, and all is good, and everyone belongs.
And happily they're ever-aftering.

But when I enter the kingdom of dreams
and face the promise of all I can be,
will they see me as a heroine?
Tell me, will they let me in?

I love the hour the seasons change
and winter turns to spring,
and empty branches welcome newborn leaves.

The earth makes room for every flower
that reaches for the sun.
"We're glad you've come," is whispered in the breeze.

But when I enter the spring of my dreams
just like a wildflower that bursts on the scene,
will I find my place with a gentle wind?
Tell me, will they let me in?

And if a heart's breaking,
a part of me is aching
to show them how much that I care.
But if no one lets me or turns and forgets me,
then how, how can I share?

There is a part of fairy tales that's very near the end,
the princess and the prince proclaim their love.
And hearts are healed and souls are changed,
and two blend into one.
All orchestrated by the stars above.

But when I stand at the door of my dreams
and face a lonely heart calling for me,
I could fill that emptiness within,
if that heart would let me in.
Won't someone let me in?


Michael McLean

Warning: This post contains sexual and abusive subject matter.

As I have had opportunity in my later years to grow beyond the scope of my upbringing I am continualy blessed by a sense of peace that is precious beyond comprehension. As a tortured child the idea of rest from fear was a faraway dream as intangible as cotton candy clouds and Neverland. I lived always in a state of panic, occasionaly sleeping, and then with one eye open. It is not often now that I relive the battle scenes of my youth. Like demons that tire of haunting an empty house they seem to have fled the bloody ground upon which this battle, MY battle, was fought. There are moments though, subtle, inobtrusive moments when the tiniest thing can trigger an unexpected chain reaction and another skirmish briefly ensues.

I was having such a great time. I was hiking with a friend at one of my favorite places on earth. The terain is diverse and there is so much texture in the vegetaition and rock formation that there is always something pleasing for the eye to land on. I just happened to take a wrong turn that day and we ended up traversing the desert about twenty minutes longer than I had originaly anticipated. This instance in itself is baffeling and should have given my intuition a pause for concern, but I admit Steve can hold up his end of the conversation and I was completely distracted by something we were arguing about. As we approached a trail that innocently leads to a tunnel, a trail that I always avoid, the conversation went like this,
"Oh! I know where we are now. That trail goes down to the tunnel." Imediately I was sorry the words had escaped my mouth. The response was anticipated, and it came just on cue.
"A tunnel! Cool." The spark of curiosity acompanied the words.
I replied with a little nervous laugh and a growing sense of fear in the pit of my stomach. Nonchalantly I replied, "Yeah, it's okay. We aren't going that way though, we're going around."
"Oh. Why?" Dissappointment.
"I'm claustrophobic." Nervous laugh again. "I was hoping you wouldn't ask, so I wouldn't have to tell the truth."

I hate, hate, HATE the idea of apearing vunerable or weak or dependant in any form. I loathe the weakness that lives in my soul. Those are the things about me that I hide from people. My fear of abandonment, my claustrophobia, fear of being physically touched by another person. Fear in any form is always attacked from within myself. I swing wildly at it trying most often to bluggeon it to death, and for the most part I am successful.
I was contemplating these very things yesterday, as I was hiking in almost the same spot; the first time I went repelling, the first time I held a snake, the first time I spent the night in the middle of the wilderness camping alone, the first time I went into a cave. Like many people who have fear, I attack it. With all my strength. I MAKE myself participate in what is frightening me so that I will win. I will not be controlled by fear if it takes every ounce of spirit within me, and I know I will die, trying to not be afraid.
You see I was manipulated with fear from a very young age. I want to share this particular moment with you, so you will understand.

I am twelve. I have been sexually, physically and emotionally abused everyday for three years now. I have learned two things pertaining to survival at this point. One, make yourself invisible. Don't ever speak, show emotion or get in anyone's line of sight. Two, do what you're told. Whatever it is, do it.
My perpatrator is my step-father. He later also became my pimp, selling me to the highest bidder, but that's another story. He is drunk and on his way to a very nasty cocaine high. My mother is gone for the weekend to a family funeral out of town. It is Friday morning, I'm getting ready for school. As I stand in my bathroom brushing my teeth he appears in all his glory, totaly naked, with an erection. He grins. I know well enough what this grin means, but I continue getting ready hoping against reality that what I know is comming just might this time pass me by. No such luck. He forces me to give him oral sex. His hands forcing my head and pulling at my hair. I close my eyes and try not to cry, again. I spend a lot of these years crying. I gag as he ejaculates in my mouth, but I choke it back anyway, that was lesson three by the way, I won't go into it here. He then procedes to cut my blouse off with a pair of scissors. This is not called for, but rather for "effect", he was a showman. He grabs and yanks and slaps. I am out of breath and absolutely NOT fighting, but he hits me anyway. I am forced into the doggie position with my head inches above an unflushed toilet, and he is violent, moving from vagina to anus and back again for what seems to be an eternity. At some point I check out. I can see it happening from some point of view, but I cease to allow myself to feel. At this point I have not yet accepted the shame and humiliation this has caused over the years. That will come much later, in the year 1990 when I am twenty-three, and yes, that too is another story. I have no concept of what time it is, but at this point I'm thinking I'm not going to school today. I am right. He forces me to my feet by pulling my hair and then just as I manage to stand he pushes me down again. I lay still trying not to think about anything. He pulls me by the arm down the hall, into the spare room and finally, into the closet. I am naked, and cold, and unfortunatley, afraid of the dark. Over come, I vomitt on the floor. I am tired and fall asleep. I have no recolection of time passing until I hear voices. My step-father, is throwing a party. I can hear women giggling, and men laughing. There is loud music and the faint smell of food. I think I'm hungry, but I'm not sure. After a time I can hear them getting louder and getting high. Eventually, I can hear someone or two having sex in the spare room. I again decide to just sleep. It's dark and I have to go to the bathroom. I have no idea how long I have been here, or how long I have to stay. I pass the time by singing and imagining. I can't hold it any longer and in the spot where the vomitt has dried on the floor, I urinate. I know full well I am going to get it for that, but it can't be helped. Long stretches of time fill the silence, it seems forever...
When the door finaly unlocks, I wait. I wait a few minutes hoping that he will not touch me. As I emerge, I am crawling on my hands and knees. I look ahead of me and on the bed he is there, passed out. I continue to crawl down the hall to my room. There is still dried urine and semen on my thighs, my back aches and my legs are cramping as I finally stand up. My assumption of a wild party was confirmed. The evidence is lying all around the house. Lines of unused cocaine are on the kitchen table. Somewhere, way way down inside me, there is someone crying. I think it might be me. I don't know. I'm not listening. I realize as I come out of my fog that it is Sunday afternoon. Four o'clock. My mother will be home in two hours.

You see, I know now what you all reading this can see so clearly. Two days in a closet, and it never occured to me to cry out, to make a sound or beat on the door or to try and save myself in any way. I was controlled by fear. Completely controlled by fear.
I have issues trying to resolve this in me. I was not brave, I was not willing to stand and fight for myself. To this day, I hate fear in my life. I LOATHE weakness, of any kind. I will not be controlled by fear any longer. I hate the thought of being vunerable, and admitting that I am in certain areas still, is even harder.
This is why I carry shame for pieces of who I am, and this is why I refuse to be conrolled any longer by things I don't know or understand.

I am learning that the beauty found in people often times come from the very scars they themselves are ashamed of, and this, this is the thought that drives me in my own way to love people the way I do. You see, in loving all your wounded self, showing you the charm and lovliness that is uniquely yours, I am loving myself too.

This is the truth of a part of who I am...

and I will not be afraid.

These are a few of my favorite things...

Often it's the little things in life that bring us so much happiness.

Apples and Penutbutter
Butterfly kisses from my kids
Cadence
Dancing
Evercrack
Fate
Giving gifts
Helium
Ice Cream
Jumping on the bed
Kindness
Long distance relationships
Men
Nature
Oxymorons
Puzzles
Quarters
Rum
Stiletto Heels
Tickle fights
Ugly ducklings
Vespa scooters
Wishes
XC
You
Zen

Life is good...

Whatever you do...

For God's sake, don't hurt me.

There are so many things in this life I have learned to forgive. Complacency, Laziness, Selfishness, Rudeness, Lateness... the list goes on. I have not however mastered the art of forgiving the lie. Any lie. Little white lies. Out-right lies. Lies that are unspoken waiting behind your eyes. You know what I'm trying to say. We have all been on the recieving end of a betrayal or a deception. It cuts, it can mortaly wound. Aimed at the jugular, it thrusts it's way into the self and the lifeblood of any friendship can drain away in a matter of seconds. It can happen quite by accident or it can be as premeditated as making a grocery list. Either way you're looking at manslaughter or murder one.

Understand, I'm admitting my fault. I am saying, for the whole world to hear, that I have a defecit of character. I try. There are times when I try harder than others to bandage the wounds, and there are times when I don't try at all. This is my failing.

I guess what I'm saying is, right now, if you wounded me in this way, I don't know which I would choose. I feel so often as I get older that I just don't have the capacitiy to bleed anymore without dying.

I'm frightened.

So, for God's sake, whatever you do...

Please don't lie to me.

Gazing Through Lilies

"Someone likes you."
He said, gazing through the lilies.
He smiled gently.
Afraid of what I could not say,
I could not speak.
The gift was mine, to me.
Silent among the scent of lilies,
gazing at his face.
Slightly shamed and unspoken
I looked into his eyes
and fell in love.


J.L. Stanley

The groanings of a middle aged woman in her prime...

Okay, so don't take this personally. I really am trying NOT to whine. It's just that some days this is, so, me...

Taking a bath

I'm sitting in the tub. Surrounded by bubbles and warm soapy water. My favorite scent of jazmine and vannila lightly clinging to the air. I love being in the water, I've always loved it, since I was a little girl. The relaxing sensual feel of floating. The complete emersion in warmth. I close my eyes and just...

breathe.

I am delighting in the quiet space of my bathroom letting the water drain as I sit. The sensation is unusual and I give myself up to the feeling. My body temperature is cooling down as the air begins to circulate around my skin and I'm begining to get a chill. I can feel the water moving down slowly below my arms, my knees. I can feel the pull of the water suctioning down the drain. A little colder now, and droplets are falling from my hair onto the middle of my back and my face. The water drains past my hips and I am starting to feel the buoyancy of it dissapear. There are only little bubbles that remain, on my skin and the sides of the tub. I am left now alone, standing in the little puddles around my feet, dripping and shivering in the cold. As I step out onto the mat and reach for the comfort of the dry towel I stop. "This is it." I say to myself, "This is how it feels when someone you love leaves you."

We are standing in my driveway, laughing about a million unconnected things. Nervous laughter, so that we can avoid the next moments for as long as possible. You pull me close and just hold me, for a long time. I relax in the warmth of your arms and the smell of your cologne. I close my eyes and for a while I just...

breathe.

There is only me and you standing facing eachother and as you brush the hair from my face and gently touch my cheek, I know. This is it, the plug has been pulled. The warmth that your presence brings to my life, my heart, my soul is leaving me now. I can see in your eyes the strength that I have come to depend on telling me tenderly that it is time to let go. And I start to feel a chill as the wind blows around my body. I can feel you leaving me before you are gone, the pull of the clock that keeps you always on schedule. Pulling you toward your destination and ripping you from me. You take a step back and I feel a little colder now, without your arms wrapping me snuggly like a coat. My lower lip starts to quiver and I am overcome with the thought of loss. I try to smile unsuccessfuly and the tears come without warning. I can feel them now, on my face and my hands. They fall to the ground and one hits the tip of your shoe. I am starting to feel the energy and buoyancy of your spirit leave. You are trying not to cry yourself so you say something ridiculous and I just look at you.Gazing at your face, I want to imprint every detail on my brain. I never want to forget the color of your eyes and the turn of your nose. The tiny scar on your forhead, the mulitcolor strands of hair on your face. I reach up my hand to wipe the tears from your moustache and you grab my hand and kiss my palm. I smile and as if that was your cue, you get in the car and wave and in an instant you are gone. Only memories remain, clinging to the inside of myself like the bubbles in the tub. I am left now alone, standing in the little puddles of tears around my feet, shivering in the cold.

I walk back inside my home, searching for the warmth and comfort of my bed. "This is it." I say to myself, "God I hate good-byes."

More please

I just want more...

All the time...

Of everything...

and no, actually. I wasn't joking.

Testing...

Steve is a wonderful guy. What can I say?

heh.

I will never speak your name

You came out of nowhere.

Just when I thought I was free, I was violently accosted by your memory. It was after all, just a movie. But then, there you were all over the screen. With nowhere to escape, I sucumb to the emotional mugging that took just about two full hours. I was reminded over and over of all the pain wrought in my life in those terrible years. I was reminded of the battle wounds that I carry and the scar tissue that is left ached a little to be reminded...

It is a different ache than that of my childhood scars. In childhood, I was truly a victim. No help, no where to run. My only strategy was to simply out last and be the last one standing, and I am.

This battle between us is not so black and white as I would like to have it. I participated in my destruction. I participated through misplaced trust. I ignored warning signs. I believed you... every word you said. Friendship, kindness even love. Like a hunter, you trained me to trust you just enough to eat out of your hand and then out of the silence, BAM! The gunshot broke and there were great and bloody wounds left in the space that once contained my heart.

Mahatma Gandhi once said "You must be the change you wish to see in the world."

I will not live in a world of hatred or bitterness. I refuse to allow you to burden me and I want you to know I will not hate you. I refuse to harbor resentment in the places of my soul where love can abide. I have built a mighty fortress to protect the sacred promises of my life, and though your memory is a loaded cannon pointed at my battlements, I refuse to allow you the victory. I am not the girl I once was. I have learned to be a warrior. I have learned how to heal. I have grown in wisdom and grace. I will win. I will be the last one standing.

I am a Shaman...

and I will, as long as I have breath, I will never speak your name.

Motivation

Would you hold my hand, if I asked you to?

Would you take me to dinner, and to the movies, and to the desert to look at the stars?

Would you tell me I'm beautiful and captivating, if I asked you to?

Would you cuddle with me on the couch and do nothing?

Would you bring me flowers, if I asked you to?

Would you brush my hair, and scratch my back, and paint my toenails?

Would you kiss me, if I asked you to?

Would you write me a little love note and hide it in my pocket?

Would you?

Just because...

I asked you to.

Girl Talk...

The summer sun has come to stay.
Bikinis, tans, outrageous legs.
They're all retarded and they all look the same.
Barbie's body's melting down,
on her face a big fat frown because "Mr. Cellulite" just moved into town.

Well me and B,
we hate super models.
It's not that we know anyone personally,
it's just that we're tired of being compared.

The boys they come here,
with expectations for the summer,
and I refuse to take any part in this barbaric ritual.
Because God has given me a mind that I will use from time to time,
and I got more on my head than what was made by Paul Mitchell.

Well me and B,
we hate super models.
It's not that we know anyone personally.
It's just that we're tired of being compared.

Was it worth the tears you cried to fit the size?

Think it over once or twice.
What lasts the longest in this life,
character, or rock hard thighs?
And in the end do you believe that beauty lies in what you see?
'Cause if you do,
then baby...you've been decieved.

You need to be kissed Scarlet, and by someone who knows how...

I am six, and you are my best friend.We live next door to eachother and we play everyday in the sand box in your backyard. Today we are sad because you are moving away forever. We clasp hands and run be hind the big palm tree at my house. We kneel down, thinking we are hidden and the grass is tickling my leg. I start to laugh. In a flash you kiss me on the lips and run away. This was the first time my lips ever touched another boys'. Now, I am glad you are gone.

I am nine, and you are in your forties. My mother works at your trophy shop. She makes me come in and say hi. You take me in the back and let me play with the engraving machine. You say "I'll make one especially for you if you let me kiss you." I say alright, but I feel sick. I don't understand. You grab my face hard and force your lips on mine. Your face is pokey and I don't like it. I can feel your tounge on my lips and I'm afraid so I shut my mouth tight. Finally you let go and the grown-ups are laughing at me. I want to hide.I slowly come to the realisation that I want to pee my pants. This is the first time something precious and sacred is taken from me against my will. This is the first time something in my soul dies. This is not the last time.

I am eleven and you are in my fifth grade class. During math you pass me a note. It says, "Do you like me? Meet me at recess at the kickball field." At recess I see you and start walking toward you. I'm not sure what I want to say. You say if I want you to be my boyfriend you will. I say I don't know. We walk behind the diamond fence and we are starring at eachother. You are impatient because I won't talk to you. 'Well" you say, "at least kiss me. That's what boyfriends and girlfriends do, you know." Next week you write me another note and you tell me you don't want to be my boyfriend anymore. This is the first time I wonder why I'm not good enough.

I am thirteen and you are the boy down the road. We ride the bus to school every morning. When there are snow days you come to my house because both of our parents work. You are so cute, and when I stand next to you my hands get sweaty and I can't think of anything to say. I hope you like my hair. We are sitting on the back porch holding hands. You start talking about kissing. You ask me if I have ever kissed anyone. I am embarrassed so I lie and say no. You smile, lean forward and put your lips on mine. My heart is beating so fast I think it's going to explode and I'm afraid to breathe. After a few seconds I can feel your tongue on my lips and I slowly open my mouth. I have never tasted someone elses tounge before. How strange...but good. Warm and almost silky and the more I can feel it the more I want to feel it. I start to feel warm all over and then we stop. We laugh nervously and it's a few minutes before we can look at eachother. We go inside and watch Gilligan's Island. This is the first time I french kiss.

I am sixteen and you are a guy from school. You seem shy and quiet and I don't really know how to talk to you. You ask me to the movies and I don't want to hurt you so I say yes. After the movies you take me home and walk me to the door. I think you are boring and I know I don't like you. When you turn to kiss me goodnight I kiss you hard and violently. I'm shoving my hands at you and grabbing your hair. I think, "If I'm bad at it he won't ask me out again." I am right. This is the first time I use physical affection to get my way.

I am thirty and you are my best friend. The kids are gone for the weekend and we are completely alone. We lay in bed naked, side by side and spend the afternoon just talking. About everything and nothing important. You scratch my back and I run my fingers through your hair. You encircle me in your arms and I put my face in the crook of your neck. I can smell you and feel your pulse on my nose. You touch my cheek and look into my eyes. Your thumb runs lightly across my lower lip. You say the perfect thing and tears fall on my face. Your lips are so soft and your moustache tickles my nose. I know the inside of your mouth as well as my own, but I love to explore anyway. This is the first time I realise you will most likely be the last man I ever kiss.




Kiss me beneath the milky twilight,
Lead me out on the moonlight floor,
Lift your open hand
Strike up the band and make the fireflies dance
Silver moon's sparkling
So kiss me.

Sixpence

My Kindred Spirit

Okay, so today, when I was suposed to be working I was actually watching The Lord of the Rings. Now that the Return of the King has come to cable I am using that as an excuse to watch the trilogy again. I have watched it so many times now I've lost count. So, it just suprises me every time that I come away from it completely in love with Boramir. Hands down, he's my favorite. In fact, I think Boramir and I are kindred spirits, and if I thought he would have me...
Well, let's just say, in my next life I want to be his woman. It has been such a long time since there has been a character that has touched me like this one. Tolkien has written this character so well that I never fail to be taken along with Boramir in his journey of self-discovery. I like everything about him. I like his strength, his inner turmoil, his self-doubt, his determination...

You name it I love it!

Isn't it one of the finest pleasures in this life to read. I'm thankful everyday that I have the capacity for learning and imagining. To actually think you are trekking through space or solving a great mystery or riding across the wilderness in search of who knows what, how cool is that. Words can bring you to tears, or make you enraged and full of violence. They can be sensual and seductive. Words. What charm they hold over our minds, and how painful it can be when they cut us. Most of us who write, and all of us who speak should be so very careful with every, single, little word.

"Umm...yeah, is that a pine needle in your hair?"

Okay, I am officially taking a break from Christmas, yep... a five minute break.

I have taken out the Christmas music from my CD player and repaced it with a burned copy of Zepplin my brother made me and I have turned the speakers up as loud as they will go.

Just a second while I decompress...

Maybe a fifteen minute break...

Okay, so to say the phrase, "Tree from Hell" might come close to describing the afternoon I just spent, or rather, wasted. Every year I do the whole thingy you know; tree, lights, stockings, fudge, shopping, turkey. I do it lovingly and mostly with such a greatful heart that even Santa must be proud. I was working this afternoon on lights, we bought new ones this year and I started the project so very excited to see the end result. Yeah. That was about two hours ago. After careful placement making sure every blulb was in just the right spot for maximum effect, because I am a perfectionist...I know what you're thinking, just nevermind, we digress. I am now at the end of my toil left with, yes a drum roll please... A FREAKIN' FEMALE END.! %#$(*

The only thing, and I mean the absolute only thing that is keeping me from violently shooting hot molten lava out of my mouth...is the fact that I am having a great hair day today and I look particularly hot. God I love good hair days.

Eros

Mi amor,

Tu nombre es miel a mis labios,

Tu espiritu es agua a mi alma,

Tu palabra es lampara a mis pies...


Te amo, Te amo...

My Task...

To Love someone more dearly everyday,

To help a wandring child to find his way,

To ponder o'er a noble thought and pray,

And smile when evening falls,
And smile when evening falls,

This is my task...



Maude Louise Ray

Jolyon...

It's been almost four years now, four years in January.

Not many of you know, I'm a recovering addict. Four years ago my family and my marriage was almost destroyed because of my addiction. Everything I had known, my foundation so to speak, suffered a quake that measured beyond the ricktor scale. Dust and ash covered the ruble of things shattered and burned. Because of me and my sickness and the choices I made in that sickness...

Three months after "the quake" I found myself in recovery, and my family, my strong, unifed, gracious, forgiving family began with me to rebuild our lives. It was during this time that I met the most incredible person I have ever met. His name is Jolyon and I am blessed beyond measure to call him my friend.

Jolyon is the type of person that when you are with him you know he is WITH you. He's not thinking of something else he has to do or worrying about work or thinking about calls he has to make or bills he has to pay. In all the years we have been friends Jolyon has never made a joke at my expense, and in our conversations and arguments together I have never been made to feel small or ignorant or ridiculous. When I'm with him, I'm the only other person in the room.

Jolyon is a very distinguished mid-fourty. He's a handsom man with incredible eyes and a great smile. Jolyon's real beauty and attractiveness come however, not from the outside, but the inside. Be it some what cliche, it is his quiet confidence and his sensitivity that is so attractive to me. He loves art and music and nature. And I guess, mostly, the thing that I love, is that Jolyon loves me. He calls and emails regularly. He has taken me camping and to the opera. I was with Jolyon the night I smoked my first cigar. It was June after the symphony and the weather was perfect, and downtown was electric and we sat by the fountain outside Symphony Hall and Jolyon shared with me. He shared himself, his thoughts and dreams and plans and desires. I love that in a man. A man who can use his vocabulary, to me, is worth his weight in gold. He is comfortable with himself and he is comfortable with me, no pretense no akwardness. He dances with me and hikes with me and crys with me (literally).

Another thing about Jolyon is that at any given moment I can be loving him and "in love with him" at the same time. But I trust him. I love when he thinks I've said something smart or funny and he gives me that look. The look of "man you're good, I want you." and the smile when he thinks I'm not looking and he's thinking, "I wonder what she's wearing under that?" I love that he thinks of me as a whole woman and not just Morgan's wife or the kids' mother, but that he is so sensitive to my past and my hangups as to never compromise me in anyway. I love it when he calls me "Woman" and tells me what to do when I'm acting spoiled and out of line. Like a big brother or a protector. That has been hard for me to accept at times, but I LOVE it. Being an independant woman I get tired sometimes of doing it all and being there for everybody else. I love that Jolyon is there for me, and HE takes the lead, without being domaneering or condecending.

I love that he trusts me, and I'm not always having to explain myself all the time. Because he is confident he's not always looking to take things the wrong way. He doesn't punish me if I make a mistake, which by the way, I do.

I guess, what I'm trying to say is that in my friendship/partnership with Jolyon, he's the one person in my life besides Morgan that I feel wants me, desires me, misses me when I'm not there. I feel valued and unique and loved for all my good and bad parts together.

I wish there were more Jolyons in my life.

Stupid Boy!

I wish that men in general would remember that some hearts are delicate and easily broken.

Not everything has to be a joke!

And you know what? Now just forget it. Forget everything I said, because I know it's not me this time. This time it's you. You and your deffensiveness and your insensitivity!

There are precious and valuable things in this world that are given and taken everyday and it's not about money. You know what I think, I think it would be easier for you if it was about the money, because you won't accept the other stuff. YOU! You WON'T let yourself ACCEPT the precious gifts that are handed to you on the proverbial silver platter!

Reason #47 to come home tonight

Everyone deserves a good spanking now and then.





"Nearly everyone in the world has appetites and imulses, trigger emotions, islands of selfishness, lusts just beneath the surface. And most people either hold such things in check or indulge them secretly. Cathy knew not only these impulses in others but how to use them for her own gain. It is quite possible that she did not believe in any other tendancies in humans, for while she was preternaturally alert in some directions, she was completely blind in others..."

John Steinbeck
East of Eden

The importance of Wednesday...

Today, is Wednesday. Wednesday has be come a rather special day in our household. It is the day that I get to spend with my brother, James. I guess to some this is a bit inconsequential, but as with everything, there is a history...

My brother and I share the same mother, but not the same father, so it happened that we did not get to spend much of our childhood together. In fact James was only six when our family was broken, and we did not see eachother for a very long time. It has only been about seven years since we made the desicion to get to know eachother again, and it has been a little rocky from time to time, niether of us really having a clue as to how to be siblings. We have sort of felt our way around. Now, we have come to a place of mutual and genuine love and respect for one another. This, is what suprises me.

You see, like a lot of us growing up I suffered abuse. Verbal, emotional, physical and sexual abuse. Life was hard and at times terrifying. Needless to say, I have scars from that time in my life. Big ones. For a long time I hated men, I know that sounds silly considering I've been married now for almost twenty years and for the most part, very happily so. When my brother and I decided to cultivate this relationship, to be honest, I wasn't sure I could do it. I had grown up sexualizing every male relationship I had ever had, how was I going to be a sister? Well, to his credit James has taught me in part how to love, sincerly and genuinely, love a man. Without sex.

Do men know even a part of the peace and fullfilment that touches a womans' heart when she is seen, truely seen as a mind and a heart and a spirit and not just a body? Don't get me wrong guys, every woman likes to feel beautiful and captivating. But it's subtle and delicate in the way it's to be handled. My relationship with my brother has brought me so much healing in so many ways, there just aren't words. Am I still afraid? Sometimes. Afraid to be touched, or to speak or be spoken to. But now there is a freedom that is comming, a freedom from that fear. To be able to look at a man and love him for himself in a "phileo" kind of way. Men are, well, fascinating. The way their minds work, the way they communicate, the way their bodies are different, the way they smell different. Teststerone is cool, and I want to not be afraid of it any longer.

Well, James has a new job and won't be comming on Wednesday any more. And for the first time I realized just how important he is to me, and just how much I will miss him. I am so very blessed, I'm sure I don't deserve it...


I know a girl
She put the color inside my world
But she's just like a maze
Where all the walls continually change

And I've done all I can
To stand on her steps with my heart in her hands
Now I'm starting to see
Maybe, it's got nothing to do with me

Fathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
So mothers, be good to your daughters too...

Boys you can break
You'll find out how much they can take
Boys will be strong
And boys soldier on
But boys would be gone without the warmth from
A womans' good heart

On behalf of every man
Looking out for every girl
You are the god and the weight of her world

So fathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
So mothers, be good to your daughters too.

John Mayer "Daughters"