My Sea Glass Shards

It’s 4:39 am on the East Coast. I can’t sleep. Sometimes when it’s like this I like to pretend that I’m on Pacific time. That it’s only really 1:39 am. That I just left a club in LA with confetti in my hair and all night yet to sleep.

I was a wonderful sleeper until the Fourth of July that my life fell apart. It’s all a little less like fireworks now and a little more like cannons fired in the dark. I wish I could go back to before, so that my heart could be made whole again AND so that I could get some ocean deep sleep.

Tonight my wide awareness led me to think about finding the perfect silver shoes to go with my newly purchased hip hugging skirt. From there I slid down the rabbit hole.

I am Alice. {Which is factual since I was named after my great grandmother Alice} I am Alice. But the shrunken down one. The one where she drinks the potion and she’s a fraction of the size. Tiny Alice. Plopped down in the middle of things that don’t feel quite right.

I’m surrounded by the reminders that it’s all a mess. The IKEA bench across from my bed is stacked with out dated magazines that I’ll never read. My bank account isn’t quite balanced {because of that fitted skirt AND a late night Amazon Prime spree}. This blog post?  It was on the to-do list from three days ago. I didn’t make enough eye contact with my loves before bed and the RV needs a new alternator.

These are the things that keep me company in the middle of the otherwise silent nights.
 
I’ve spent a lot of them, these lonely nights.  Wishing I could balance it all better, or balance it at all. In the starless nights, I lie here cursing the choices I’ve made and the mess that I am. Wishing I could teach my teenage self some self discipline and how to plan better.

Can you see this theme? This Me, wishing the real away or at least rearranged and placed nicely on the shelf? This mess. Me. A mess. A room temperature disheveled mess?

A Hot Mess.

It’s not as glam as it looks on the t-shirt.

Well. I’ve decided, here in East Coast time. I’m owning it. Or at least I’m beginning to own it.

I am done cursing my disorganized heart and my cracked windshield dreams. I want it all. The ALL that I already have.

I’m staking my flag in and claiming it as my own. All of it. The stories I carry on my stretch marked hips and the seaglass shards that I sweep under the bed. I can’t deny these things their place anymore. Because these are the scattered things that make me who I am.

I am a hot mess. Standing here in the desert sun. Owning my Desert Queen-ness. I am lifting my head and standing tall in the midst of these scattered bones and deflated pool floaties. This is mine. This is me.

No more Hiding in the Shadows Girl. No more Bury Your Story Girl.

I am no longer going outside of myself to make things pretty. No more target trips before the get together to make our space a little cuter. No more editing my life story to make those around the fire feel less of the flame.

I am going to take what is, the overflow and the emptiness. The broken records and the smudged eyeliner. The twisted stories the scars and the stains. All of it. All of me.

This is cave dwelling and torn hems.


Because really isn’t that what it all is anyway?

The other night, when I was wide awake. {It’s a pattern I’m trying to allow} I lie in bed and the woven words ran thought my mind, I thought about the power of going first. Into the unknown and the unplanned.  Flag held high and ready to run like my life depends on it. First. Ahead. A nomadic pioneer queen.

What if you go first? What if you take the scattered bones and the torn fragments and own it all.

this seabed floor

“I'll never know, and neither will you, of the life you don't choose. We'll only know that whatever that sister life was, it was important and beautiful and not ours. It was the ghost ship that didn't carry us. There's nothing to do but salute it from the shore.”
~Cheryl Strayed. Dear Sugar.

I asked him to let me walk myself and then to dive, into the depths.

Alone.

He wanted to go along. To hold my hand and to be a comfort. A safe space. But this I knew I must do all on my own. I must leave this state of co-dependency. I must.

These depths, they will be midnight blue. There would be no glimmer from the sun above. It will be very much like night. The darkest night on this seabed floor. There will be no glittered covered shells. No golden pink pearls.

This. This, is the dirty work. The sludge and the muck that now lies across my own encrusted shag carpeted ocean underbelly.

You see I've lost my shimmer. I stopped writing somewhere along the way. Started shoving it all into the extra pounds around my belly. Burying it seemed like a good enough idea.

Until. Until. I noticed that I've lost my soft. I have lost my kindness. I've become ragged and bitter. My words cutting into the knoll-y grass covered hills that I love. My words snap across rooms an my heart thumps like a caged bird against my rib-cage.

I must tend to this. I must.

I searched tonight for "grief from the past" on my trusted friend Google.

I came up empty handed.

All paths led me to the loss of cherished people and loves lost. But what I know is that this is not about those things. This time.

This is about the loss of who I am no longer. The loss of who I might have been. The loss of dreams and visions. The loss of how it might have looked.

There seems to be no guide for that.

So I'm writing my own. It's time. And the only way that I know to do that is to leave the shore. To go alone.

I cannot focus on what might still be when I surface. That fear. Right there. It has caused me to hold back for far too long.

When I come forth none of it may still be there. Or all of it might look exactly the same.

The only thing that may change is me. I'm hoping to find a chemical peel for my bitter soul.

It's all mine

milagrogirlallmine.jpg

I'm done trying to release the past. I know it's not the "right thing" to say. Ask any guru or spirit guide. Or even Elsa. They'd all say, or sing "let it go, let it go."

{If you know me at all, you know I've never been the girl to do the "right thing."}

It's been too long of burning things over embers and attempting to set them free. It's become routine, and it's become too big of a deal.

The past, the hurts, the tears and the shame. It turns out they don't want their freedom. They are like homing pigeons. Roosted on my pillow. I find them there when I lay back down in the middle of the night after drinking too much camomile tea, in an attempt to drown them.

These fragments of bone and chiseled boulders are all mine. The release isn't working. It never really has been.

For years.

I started by trying to pray it all away. Laying it down. Setting them free. When that didn't work I filleted my chest to open up my heart and lungs.

I tried to write it away, to make affirmations out loud.

To buy it a passport and pack it's tapestry bags. Dropping it at the airport or even escorting it onto the plane. 

I've tried ignoring it.

I've tried to hide it all away. Shoving it all under the bed next to the party shoes and the birthday decorations.

These things all of them, left me raw, exposed, but no more free.

I tried to fool it into going. To bread crumb it out the door and away from my heart and belly. Don't be fooled. It would go. Sometimes ever so gently, in the quietest swiftest movement and sometimes loudly, boldly making declarations and throwing it's arms into the air like a child whose ice cream had all slithered to the ground.

It would all go and I would take a breath and maybe a hot shower and then raise my eyes to see it all standing before me again, my platinum hair still dripping. Our dance not over, this tango still with things unsaid.

I'm not forcing it to go anymore, I'm not asking it politely either. I'm not even suggesting it.

I'm taking back it's power to boomerang. Knocking me to the ground as it strikes me in the back of the head and the center of my heart.

My past and the pain that it brings. Is mine. I'm owning it. All of it. It's how I got here. It's what made me. All of it. And it's all mine. The dark parts, the cheating, the buried babies, the self harm, the pyramids of lies, the empty bank accounts, the 3 AM's, broken things, the birthday heartbreaks, the middle of the night texts, the carved on walls, the Grimm-est tales. They are mine. All mine. If they go at some point on their own free will, I will tell their stories still.

Pull up a chair. I'll light the fire.

 

 

 

{Don't get this wrong. I don't want to live there, in the shadowed hallways of my past. I just don't want to deny it it's place, any longer.}

Allowing

milagrogirlallowing.jpg

I woke up forty today. It felt like the most sacred holy ravishing thing that I could do was to write. It’s how I want to spend this year. It’s how I want to spend the years that follow.

I looked in the mirror and it all looks the same. My eyes the same. My face, my silken skin. The hills of my hips and the valleys between my breasts. I don’t feel it. The forty or the birthday. From right here, I seem the same me.

I spent yesterday running my arm across my altar and allowing it all to fall to the ground. The dust, the feathers, the prayers. I needed it to happen. A clearing. A cleansing. Making space and holding witness of what has been and what is to come. It’s all holy. As I watched it fall it felt like a prayer in itself. Maybe I need more letting things fall to the ground so that I can witness them in time and space.

Last night I crawled into a king size bed at my favorite chain of hotels and I built a pillow fort around myself. Right in the middle. Using every inch of bed and fluff. A fortress. {In my motorhome-turned gypsy wagon, I spend my nights nestled against my man on a full size futon.} He knew what I needed going into this year, this era, was space. Hotel booked.

I had planned to spend the evening with the bed covered in planners and pages going on a vision quest, for my forty. Instead I allowed. I allowed the lamb curry with the plastic fork and the Starbucks chai. I allowed the video streaming and the cherry m&ms. A allowed the laughter that shook the bed and filled the room for only me to hear. I allowed the text messages and the “one more episode.”

I then took an extra long shower, slathered sesame oil across my skin, spending extra time on the cellulite thighs and the slightest fine story lines. I oiled my feet with delightful scents and then I read the New Moon insights for my Aquarius self, that every one else read two days ago. It all felt right. I allowed.

There will be time to cast a vision for this age. I just needed a few more moments in that big bed to be. To be with me and for me.


Allowing.