that's a fine looking high horse

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If I'm a pagan of the good times
My lover's the sunlight
To keep the Goddess on my side
She demands a sacrifice
To drain the whole sea
Get something shiny
Something meaty for the main course
That's a fine looking high horse

I tried to describe to her what was, what is happening here. It's hard to put to words. The depths of it. The widths of it. This year, {this decade} has been slowly building. Climaxing. I think right here is where I started to finally acknowledge that I wouldn't be able to ignore it. That it would need a voice. That that voice, it may need to wail.

In two months I turn 40. I am full of resistance to it. For so many reasons. 40 reminds me of Oprah. I remember her celebrating for days. Weeks maybe. Wearing matching clothes and perfectly coiffed hair. And while I love so much that she is and so much that she says. I do not want Oprah's 40. I'm not even sure that I want my own.

They say that it brings freedom and a letting go of sorts. I just feel like I've already been doing that. I'm so free I no longer have roots. I've let go of almost all that I have known. It's just bringing more confusion and resistance. Can't I stay in my 30's if I've already done those things?

She asked me if I first needed to grieve some things. To really grieve them. I spent two days contemplating wearing black for the next two months. To go inside and grieve it all. I didn't even know until she asked that I wanted that. When she said it I felt the biggest permission slip held tightly, crumpled in my hand. 

I'm going to do that. I'm beginning that. To sit shiva with myself. To mourn all that cannot be, that was and is no longer.

But a part of me also wants the sparkle. To wear nothing but sequins and fur these last weeks of my 30's. To be bold and shocking and brash. To sleep in my makeup and get up and wear it out the next day. I don't know what I want more. The darkness or the sparkle.

In the spirit of untraditional shiva. I'm going in. I don't know what it will look like, but I will allow it. I will throw my head back and call it all forth. I must see to this.

It may get heavy in this space. It may not be colorful and sweet. It may be gritty and full of stark nakedness. It will not be tidy or candy coated. It may be dripping with grief and the heaviness of molasses.

{Hoziers music will be my soundtrack for this sojourning.  Go. Now. Listen}