this little town,
has been shifted.
like an earthquake
It arrived unexpected,
and delivered It’s force--
aiming directly at our simplicity.
____

How do you live when a part of you is now gone?

All mothers are now in torrential pain
and weep, as I do now,
at the thought of the
moment when she must look down
at the shattered body,
of the one she gave life to,
to say “yes this was my daughter.”
How do you live when a part of you is now gone?

And the fathers, now full of rage
who most understandably, want to decimate
the blackness that destroyed The One Precious thing
that they were meant to protect.
I honor their rage and contempt,
but I also pray for it to move out of their way and let them love again
How do you live when a part of you is now gone?

And the friends, oh the friends--
who are all too damn young to have this
lie at their feet. I know their sorrow and fear will
sleep next to them for many nights to come and
most likely will slip into their dreams
keeping them possessed by it’s fear.
I hope they can stay awake long enough to believe that they are safe.
How do you live when a part of you is now gone?

And the rest of us who had these children walk amongst us:
teachers, spiritual leaders, mom-friends, and Friend-of-Friends--
our helplessness, our unending sorrow of wanting 

to erase something we have no control of.
Our anger at losing someone we also nurtured and tried to protect.
We have been displaced and been raped of our small-town belief 

that nothing like this can ever happen to one of our own.
How do you live when a part of you is now gone?

Suffering has come to us as an enormous slap in the face
An “I told you so” way of acknowledging Her presence in our everyday lives.
Presence in the belief that just like we cannot control
a seismic wave of the earth,
we can still measure it's fault lines:
because the tenets that hold us together
have a no-fault way of keeping us whole
and each day continue to ask
How do WE live when a part of US is now gone?

Fear & the Two who fell

and Two fell
on this day.
back when
Fear slept.
before we knew
he was vicious.

like a tamed animal,
Fear was content to
circle in his own cage.
restlessness was his
only provided pleasure.

then, when Two fell,
the surface was ripped open.
exposing steel bones.
and, as we arched our necks up,
Fear found his way out.

now, we sit next to Fear.
have him over for dinner.
and, like an annoying house guest,
we are trying to get him to leave

he sits next to our consciousness,
follows us right up to the departure gate,
watches us lie naked in our own bed,
and expects us to not to care
if he ever leaves.

but there are days when
we tell Fear to go to hell.
enough is now enough!
there is no room left at this inn,
because Suffering has become the new house guest

Fear becomes wounded—and
shit!—his cowering brings
me to Compassion's door, and
like a hurt child, I sit next to Fear
and try to explain.

"You do have a place, my friend.
you do serve a purpose.
but you should not ride on Suffering's
back. All you need to do is to walk beside her
and sharpen her stride."

Fear gazed at me in confusion,
(obviously having a meltdown of identity)
but I also saw how he realized
he was never cut out to be a solo act.

Fear still sleeps over from time-to-time,
and now, years after the Two fell,
he reluctantly abides to his purpose and only chats with Suffering.
He tries to offer her ways to check her purpose.

I have to admit that I once eavesdropped on their conversation,
and I swear I heard another Voice telling Another Who Listens,

'Let us keep Fear contained and managed
within Suffering's womb.
Let it's seed keep her fertile, but
never let her become impregnated
with it's Power."

Then I heard Another Who Listens give this Voice a name.
They gloriously called it Love.
And just how Lucinda has written so beautifully
"Love is a weapon, love is a lesson
love is a mighty sword..
That's why we keep on believing in Love"
It was then, for the first time, I cried so very hard.

so today, as I watch and listen about the Two who fell
I let Love sit beside me, not Fear.
We both sit arm-in-arm on the couch that Fear once possessed.
We let our backs lay against the pillows of Suffering
and allow Fear to be only an ottoman of Truth.

Breath of Motherhood

The Breath than contains Motherhood is one I find so very hard to manifest. How can one give life so fervently, so graciously, so magnificently without wandering into the dilemmas of her own life's desires? How can I begin to relate to a creature who carries my heart in his pocket, manipulating it with his every thought and action, only to be thwarted in my attempt to retrieve it back? After all, I am the woman who created it's passion long before they slept in the corners of my womb, I alone possess the colors of it's life and sense of Self, I alone own it's power and all of it's darkness. But do I?


I once came across this quote by Elizabeth Stone:

“Making the decision to have a child is momentous.
It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.”

Losing full possession of your heart is apparent the moment they slice the umbilical cord. From that moment on, that to which you held, is now what holds you; and this is where I begin the true identity of this blog post. It is the story of all of us who took the ride of motherhood and gave birth to a being, who in the end, may take more of us that we ever knew we had possession of. It is the ride of our lives, and just as my first born came into this world pushing and pulling at my body, bloating my face beyond belief (seriously), never, ever, does it stop creasing the terrain of a woman's life. The physical exhaustion of early motherhood meets the intermediary lull of middle childhood, and although we may begin to believe that the end is near, it consciously ends only when the thread of time releases our bodies to the earth.


That being said, I find myself, now in my mid forties, wondering how I got myself wrapped up in this commitment I thought I had the power to talk myself out of. Against the good advise of my Feminine Power/Career Woman archetype, who actually hated the idea from the start, and thought this motherhood thing was a terrain destined only for fools and pretentious martyrs, I wanted to be pregnant, I wanted to be the Mrs Cleaver, I wanted to be the Romper Room mom carving out magical experiences for smiling toddlers. I naively thought I needed motherhood to fulfill a destiny, and I read all the What to Expect books like a triathlete preparing for the race. I had great confidence in my ability to lay the course out, and I have to say that I did pretty well until they reached 12, then the early adolescence demon slipped in and I had to arm myself with new strategies to protect my heart from being destroyed. 


I want to share with you what I found the other day in my files. These words represent my struggle as I witnessed my beautiful, confident, young boy begin to be taken by self-doubt.

The Poison:

The demon Scelero took great pleasure in how easy it was to pour the poison into the mind of this particular young prince. The potion was black as a midnight, thick as evil itself, and it did not require any syringe to transport its effect. It did not need a specific anatomic vein to make its way into the human heart because negative thought was its one true pathway where it flowed freely and effortlessly.  It only required the youth's invitation: feelings of self doubt and lack of self worth.

This young boy was indeed the perfect specimen. At 11 years young he did not even know the first way of defense against the demon's poison, and what was even more perfect was that he did not even feel the demon's presence! His warrior sight had not been presented to him yet and the young boy was ill-equipped of the knowledge needed to defend himself. He knew nothing of the balancing game between good and evil.

The demon was amazed how well the poison soaked into each layer. It would not be long now before it would take effect and the drama will begin to vibrate loudly and precisely into the youth’s identity. The battle cry will be heard and the king and queen will call upon many warriors to rescue the prince, but it will take some time for the royal family to discover that the one true effective weapon will come from the prince himself. Until he feels this power from deep within, little can be done to shelter him from the sounds of his own torturous self-doubt. 

The prince lay in silence, and on the surface looked like the same boy the demon Scelero had found the time before. When is that time you ask? It was yesterday; it was it is tomorrow; because it was not our time we think of as linear. Scelero walked into the so-called yesterdays and tomorrows effortlessly because he knew how to play with the thoughts of time. It was so very easy to corner the weakness of an adolescent young man, and he knew his job had been completed perfectly. Little did he know the Queen saw his shadow exit the palace door.

So, this journey of the heart never ends, because even as my husband and I remain in the state of high-alert with upcoming lessons in teen driving, dating, and dare I admit it, drinking, we have to remain vigilant to the demons walking in and out of both of our son's lives. It is exasperating, and thrilling; enlightening, and morally challenging; it is filled with light and impending darkness, and, in the end, will be the final litmus test of my life. 

The Breath of Death

The Breath of Death. It is strange how these two words, when paired together, rhyme so well. For most of us, when we see these two words standing next to each other, we feel their defiance towards one another. One gives and one takes. But, just as light & shadow, the yin & the yang, the good & the bad, I have come to see (after 46 years of reflective living) how they can survive to give purpose to one another. Without breath there is death, and without death, well, how can you fully appreciate the presence of breath? What I mean by this, is how can you fully give thanks to the breath without knowing the absence of it? Metaphorically, the breath can stand for moments, for attempts, for platitudes, for steps, or as in this case, blog posts. I inhale all what life has to offer, but how can I exhale what matters most? How can my experiences contain a rhythm like that of breath, so that when I am forced to confront my deepest demons, which try to take away these experiences, I have the faculties to survive?

I think when I wrote this title, the Breath of Death, I was trying to articulate a sense of consumption my heart has been in lately. I am breathing in the despair of lost loves, lost spouses, and, one of the most devastating, lost mothers to young children. We all hate to stand on this edge, but I cannot deny that there is a part of me that is so grateful to be open to the soulful endurance-test that grief offers. Like a sponge, the heart is filled with the stories, the tears, and the hugs of those who are sharing in the grieving process, and then- when you least expect it- it spontaneously squeezes itself out upon those who are left open to witness. Sometimes it is a word, or a smell, or a seemingly innocuous item which releases this torrent, but I can only say from personal experience, that grief needs to feel this release to be, once again, open to the fulfillment life offers.

When my father died, I watched. I watched him take his last breath, I watched my siblings process his death, and I watched My Self go deeper into who he was. I wafted through his clothes, his drawers, his cabinets, and I observed artifacts of the man that he never dared to be put on display. All of his stuff was left behind, and one could assume he lived a good life, but I was left only to remember him for the pure look of fear he had in his eyes on the day he took his last breath. Death may have denied him the opportunity to breathe, but it was his breath of alcohol addiction that pushed his soul way beyond a life worth living. All his leftover stuff could never reveal that story-- only I can. But like an overstuffed bag of objects never finding its way to the Goodwill Store, it rots within me still to this day.

In the end I know the breath is the thread that holds us to this state of consciousness, and yet I find myself not acknowledging it's complete power as I move through my days. Then Death slaps me in the face and tells me to take a closer look. I commend others for their religious zealousness on the meaning of life, but I have too many questions to consider before packaging it up in one gospel, one mantra, one belief. So, while the sanctity of the Breath appeals to my heart, and I will also listen to Death and connect to the value of it's teaching.

The First Breath

I am beginning to construct this blog to help me categorize my own thoughts. A place far away from social media and graduate online forums; a place far away from the categories and definitions I need to conform to; and a place secluded enough to settle myself into the quietness I need to be rebuild myself into. I might write here in the shadows before I share it, before it is best to reveal my purposes, because, I myself am unsure of it's purpose! It might be day, it might be a month, it might be an eternity. All I know is that I need to construct to find clarity, and this was the most accessible entry point upon the virtual shelf of self absorption.

But this will require holding back my show-off Jungian archetype who loves the immediacy of Facebook and who loves to continually throw herself out there for attention. She is so immature and restless. She is my one true enemy and my only best friend. She is my biggest fan, my worst catastrophe, and my most desirable poet. She has been the determined voice to push me into the edges of the limelight, and she will not stop until her efforts have been acknowledged. But I have to tell her to wait. Just like an impatient toddler crying for attention, I must tell her to hold on, and perhaps even distract her for awhile (she can play in Facebook!). I  must tell her that sometimes words and actions need to be crafted before they are released into the flood. They must have strength before they set off on the journey, because the tyranny of critics will weaken it's bones and cause the splintering of it's truth.

The title Life Breaths made itself available like so many other thoughts that come to me through the wave of reconnaissance thought. It found me is a phrase I use most often when people ask me where I found that quote, that website, that book, and I feel, once again, that this name was served up to me at a time that I would be most open to rebuild myself upon it's epitaph.

So, this is the First Breath. I can only hope this collection of written breaths will sustain me like the element of oxygen empowers a living body, and I will humbly accept it's power to invigorate, or, upon it's departure, disintegrate.