2015 – stitched through with sorrows

I cannot see the last year clearly. It is blurred by tears of sorrow. I wept more this past year than in many years recently passed. Sorrows pulled and punched at my soul, stretching its edges and pummeling new shapes into my life, my community, and my family. It etched old-new patterns into the world.

I am accustomed to change, mostly. I embrace change, mostly. Each change set a new road before me, pristine and waiting, leaving all not taken strewn like litter behind. Broken promises and never-to-be-fulfilled dreams fell and shattered on the fading landscape. My eyes cracked open and poured.

Regret and “wasn’t worth it” mantras are useless things hiding behind corners, reaching for my throat as I pass by. I won’t allow their clutching to find hold. To move forward without forever tendrils of remorse required honouring the almost-was, allowing the grief to be. I wept as I released the old stories.

Pockmarked with deep sorrows, 2015 broke, recovered, and broke again. It kept me off-balance in ways I am unaccustomed to. By the end of December I was stretched so thin I felt see-through.

Now I do the very human thing and look to the calendar hanging on the door to shed 2015, renewing hope with the turn of a paper page. I know it is a meaningless act. I know it is a sacred act. Turn the page and step out of sorrow.

I’m claiming 2016 as the year of joy, preemptively. And as I will …

Sometimes a Wild God

I was thinking about this poem again this morning, Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hiron.

Coyopa : words by Tom Hirons

I’m delighted to say that this poem is now available to buy in book form, with amazing illustrations by Rima Staines. There’s another of the illustrations at the bottom of this post. It’s printed on 100% recycled paper in the UK by a worker’s co-op. Do take a look – it’s a beautiful, pocket-size book and only costs £7.50 + p&p!

You can buy it direct from us at the Hedgespoken Press website:

buy-wild-god-now-2

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On Being Unstoppable

Oooooo, so much love for this. REBLOG:

“Life should be able to stop us. If not for beauty, then for heartbreak. If not for the joy of seeing a tree’s stark branches waving against a gray winter sky, then for the horror of seeing people starving to death in our own rich cities or drowning to death on the shores of Europe. If not for the pleasure of a beloved piece of music, then for the despair of another mass shooting. If not for the happiness on the face of a dear friend or family member, then for the agony present when they suffer or when we let them down. Let life be present to us. Let it stop us.”

PRONOIA BLOG

Last week, I visited the webpage of a coaching school someone I know is considering. On the school’s homepage, a graduate of the program boasted that the school’s methodology had enabled her to teach her clients to be “unstoppable.” And that stopped me, right in my tracks.

The nature of being human is that we are eminently stoppable. Our very biology gives us natural limits to how hard we can push. We need to breathe, to drink, eat, and sleep. We crave touch, the sun, fresh air, and communication. Our bodies are covered in a soft flesh–relatively defenseless with no claws or sharp teeth. We bleed and heal. Our reproductive cycle gives us utterly helpless young, demanding that we stop and take notice and care for these vulnerable creatures. And, of course, we die–the ultimate full stop. Death comes for us all with no regard for how hard we try…

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Emotional wisps, treacherous illusions

My equilibrium is very uncertain during trying emotional times. As I slip I will try to grasp at a feeling, begging it to be the branch protruding from the cliffside that halts my descent. It disappears in my grip like wisps of smoke would. I see my hands convulsing – open, close, open, close.

As I fall toward the abyss, I wait for the cushion of darkness to numb my thoughts and hide my hands from my sight, so at last I may rest.

What about you? How do you “find your emotional feet”?

Childhood

REBLOG – I agree with this.

Amoret BriarRose

I’ve been thinking a lot about my parents lately, and wondering:

What if we all have to recover from childhood?

To be clear: I am not discussing abuse situations in this post. I am curious about the experience of being a child – small, without agency, growing and changing and learning at a fast rate – it is a very vulnerable state.

What if, regardless of parenting style, each person emerges from childhood wounded in some way? What if a reasonable, ‘normal’ childhood is an essentially wounding experience?

What if it is perfectly normal, perhaps even essential, to be wounded?

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