Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘courage’

when my words and my mind were spinning madly, on the brink of a collision with reality, i wanted to share stories and jokes and all the intimate details of the lives we were living.
… and then
it happened. the inevitable collision that i had spent a lifetime ignoring was now, unavoidable. the spinning thrashed around my mind like an orca beating its kill on the ocean top.
slap
slam
… and then
my head burst open and everything escaped, oozing out of those darkened crevasses so fast that to grasp them, to contain them, was an impossible feat. i crawled out from beneath, prostrated myself, hated myself.
i hated me
… and then

i looked at all the pieces lying around, scattered, unrecognizable, knowing the reassembly process was impossible. i couldn’t decifer which piece fit where and if some of the pieces had been altered.

all the pieces had been altered
… and then
the altered pieces looked so beautiful, so magnificent in their new imperfect shapes. i saw that, you see? i saw it. i saw the love inside. i saw the beauty that was forming and growing and busting through a wall to shout at the world.
shout at you
… and then
the porous pieces of myself, those imperfect and all too occasionally fucked up pieces of myself took on a magnificent shape. they looked like me. a crooked smile. a blemish. a lonely dimple.
me
me
i stood upright and strong and dared to move.
dared to love
dared to love me
i took the onus for me

Read Full Post »

My youngest is having a Valentine’s Day card exchange tomorrow at her school. We’re busy addressing cards to all her classmates and decorating a shoe box, perfectly, with just the right amount of hearts.
I’ve never been one to celebrate Valentine’s Day. Even while I was married, we never did anything special, it was just another day. I remember in school getting a few cards from boys I thought were cute, that was nice. But, I cared more about decorating that shoe box and hoping I would win the prize for the best decorated box than I did hoping some boy would want me to be his Valentine. One year, my dad and I made the most fantastic box… it was shaped like a mail box and had Snoopy and Woodstock lying on the top. I remember spray painting it black and my dad carefully carving out a sleeping Snoopy for the top. That’s what I remember, not which boy I hoped wanted me to be his Valentine.

I recently had a conversation with a friend about me “dating”. I had been “dating” someone for a few months and my friend commented that he was glad to see I was “moving on”. My brain stopped focusing at that very moment. I lost track of anything else that was said. I remember fighting my voice to stay quiet when it so desperately wanted to spit out a slur of angry boisterous words. I’ve since stopped dating that person, and those words, “moving on”, have hung on to every active brain cell I have.

There is this belief in our world that to be complete as a person, we must be attached to another person. I believed it too, for a very long time. I was married but was far from happy. I had someone to spend 18 years of Valentine’s Days with, but I certainly was more splintered than whole. I believed so strongly that being with someone, even if you were unhappy, must be far better than being alone. That belief kept me in a situation that ripped tiny pieces of me out with each passing day. I wasn’t alone, I was lonely. I distinctly know the difference between the two.

Being alone and being lonely are two completely different situations.
I love being alone.
When I’m alone, I write and I paint and I read and I vacuum and I eat peanut butter off of a spoon for dinner.
I go camping and hiking and running.
I sit and I think.
I quiet my soul and I breathe.
I am not lonely.
I am alive with love, on Valentine’s Day and every day.

I am filled with enough love to know that if being in a relationship involves me giving up the wonderful pieces of myself that I am just beginning to uncover or hiding those pieces in fear that they won’t be accepted, it isn’t love. Being with someone who is less than what you deserve just so others can see a person hanging on your arm, isn’t love. Love is what we all deserve… what we all have, if we just open our eyes to see it.
Love for ourselves.
Love for others.
Love for someone special.
I won’t attach myself to someone because they seem “nice enough”, I won’t repeat the mistakes of the past because I’m scared of what you might think if I go to the movies alone.

A Valentine’s Day will arrive when I find myself attached to another person and I will welcome that day like a child welcoming the first snowfall of winter. But I’m not watching the clock tick, waiting. I’m not standing still and refusing to be alive awaiting the arrival of someone who may or may not exist. The world around me needs to know that, the world around us needs to know that being whole is who we are individually. I’m a whole person, alone.

I’m not attached to another person this Valentine’s Day and am looking forward to eating peanut butter off a spoon for dinner. I won’t play the role of an “attached person” just so the world around me will think I “moved on”.
I “moved on” the day I had the courage to be alone.

Read Full Post »

I am here
though I wonder where that is
a trail heading forward
or winding back around
a bridge crossing the stream
steady
strong
a few wobbly planks

I am here
looking in every direction
testing which way the wind blows
scattering my thoughts like pollen
following each nudge forward
curious
brave
imperfections are beautiful

I am here
dancing with my thoughts
listening to my life
singing my own song
the words float through the air
cartwheeling
tumbling
but always, I am here
~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Don’t forget to visit my new Etsy Shop!
Becky Brewster Sain’s shop on #etsy http://etsy.me/VsVXu4

or, click over there ~~~~~>

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

20130129-180638.jpg
untwisted creations – Etsy

Read Full Post »

Sometimes the mind races, never stopping, never slowing, never pausing… never giving the rest of your being a chance to catch its breath. You reach too far and too often. You pull too hard and too relentlessly. And your mind continues, mocking you, knowing you can’t get control of it, knowing it is so close to spinning you out of control it can smell the angst. You’ve been there before. Every shoe has already dropped, there’s no need to wait for the next one — every shoe has already dropped. Then, like a kid waking on Christmas morning, you realize the gift has arrived.

The gift of knowing the pit you fell into doesn’t exist anymore because you boarded it up, you took every tool out of your magical bag and sweated and carefully covered the pit with your truth because your truth is so strong and so right and so promising. You wipe the angst from your brow and your mind quiets, finally, it quiets. Sometimes the mind breaks quickly, the shoes drop loudly and angrily… you stop. But sometimes it’s slow, cracks develop, but you keep going because they’re so small and so subtle — no one sees them but you, and you see them clearly. You know how every crack was formed. Then the realization of another gift, the gift of continuing. The gift of becoming. The gift of breathing deep and exhaling fully.

Quiet your mind.
Name your cracks.
Cover the pits.
No more shoes will drop.
Live this moment.

20130122-083818.jpg

Read Full Post »

Each of us carry around a world of words inside us, those words form stories, some of those stories make sense… we can feel them and see them and touch them. Some of those stories are out-of-order, scrambled, strewn about in all the dark crevasses of our minds — we search for a beginning and an ending, something, anything that puts the words in order to form a story that we can accept.

Often, the stories inside us define us, not because they should. Some of those stories don’t deserve to be given any energy, those stories that keep pushing our heads under water every time we try to surface for a breath — the lies we tell ourselves.

Towards the end of October, I decided I wanted to let the words out, I had to let the words out — to give them life. We all have those stories in us, we can’t keep them inside… it hurts, and we can’t ignore the hurting — hurting requires us to pay attention to it. So we release them… to our friends over coffee, to our sisters over the phone — we release them and it feels so good, and the hurting stops.

I’ve been lucky enough to have formed connections with some amazing writers who can break me open with one well placed sentence, I took a breath and sent one of those friends a message one day and told her I was writing a book, a memoir. Even writing the word “memoir” made me cringe, still, I cringe. I think a piece of me wanted her to talk me out of it. Statistically speaking, the likelihood of writing a memoir and getting it published is, well, bleak. There are probably 1000 novels and memoirs and short story collections and poetry chap books that are written for every one that actually gets published and the one that actually gets published may not be the best, just the luckiest — so, I was almost hoping her response would be an emphatic “No!” I’ve never written anything longer than 4000 words (I’m sure my graduate papers don’t actually count although my professor told me my papers resembled an article in Us magazine more than they did a research paper — she was puzzled when I smiled and told her, “Thank you!”), this could be, not one of my wiser ideas. But my friends response was full of exclamation points and cheer and hope, so I became full of exclamation points and cheer and hope.

I had to ask what a WIP was and what it meant when someone wanted to be a reader for you and how long is a memoir and what’s a manuscript and what is a query and how do you revise and when do you revise… I think me going into this with no knowledge might be the best way, for me.

I am writing this memoir for me, to try to organize the stories from the last five years that have been floating around haphazardly in my brain. As with all the pieces of myself I’ve left here on this blog, I hope to cut myself open and bleed all over the pages of this memoir and maybe we’ll gather up the pieces of ourselves, together.

So… I began…

And those words… they just started spilling out.

I went from zero words to 65,000 words in about 30 days… and then, the words became harder to set free. That’s where I am now, trying to set the last 15,000 words free so I can officially have a “shitty first draft“. The trouble with memoir is, it’s difficult to pinpoint the end of the story because I am the end of the story. The words I’m trying to put into order form the story of me. But, here I am… cutting myself open and divulging all the broken pieces and the dark crevasses and the bottomless rabbit holes with the hope that our stories connect us — we all have a story that needs to be told and needs to be heard and somewhere in the midst of all of those words, the breaking becomes the healing.

Read Full Post »

i stand at the edge of the world and i jump and i soar higher and higher

… and then
a tug
a pull
i am unable to move forward
my leap was so high and so far and the wall that floats around in the between places of what we are and what we can be is there, just ahead

… and then
it starts in my feet
they cease their movement
i begin to float slowly back to the edge
a rope lassoed to my legs tugging me
tugging me
my arms try to swim through the open air
try to propel me onward towards that wall

… and then
the struggle takes all my strength
my arms keep moving and flailing and i can see that gravity is wrapped around me and every time i move it tangles me up more and i am moving and struggling and lurching and forgetting to pause

… and then
i inhale and fill my lungs and i exhale
inhale
exhale
repeating repeating repeating
i caress the pause like a forgotten lover coming to ease my mind

… and then
i am free
i am floating to that wall with my hand stretched out my fingers extended reaching past the safety of who i am

… and then
i pause, looking at both sides because both sides are equally beautiful and filled with the dreams of an awake mind

… and then
i jump into the middle of who i can be but the wall between the two has dissolved
the struggle has faded
the sadness of gravity has released me to move freely

so i do

Read Full Post »

everyone blames the poet
when there’s not enough blood on the page
flowing around the crevasses of every mind that begs the poet to bleed a bit more
grabbing hold of a soul here and a heart there
because everyone wants the poet to take it all away so they don’t have to stay there anymore
pausing when you read a word
wincing from the pain
laughing when you know you can’t feel anything that isn’t written in the blood of the poet
you take the poets words and walk around in a haze
just bleed a bit more
till the fire goes out and the wave stops rolling and the wind mellows to a breeze
everyone blames the poet
when the answers are so well hidden
like a flawless shell you spot when you’re walking that thin line between there and here
when the pretties aren’t neatly tied in a bow and handed to you
you have to walk a little longer
you have to bleed a bit more
everyone blames the poet for not supplying the world with wings but they keep saying jump
just jump
cut open a vein and let each word drip out
slowly
effortlessly
puddling on the page for everyone to read
everyone blames the poet when they watch the waves come in and wash it all away
but we know
they’ll just bleed a bit more

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »