Building myself from the ground up

I am starting to feel whole again. I am building up my house from new foundations/ I am nesting my own comfort/ I am birthing my own joy. I am creating a place of safety with ribbons and scraps I found in the dirt outside my house/ It feels like a labor process and a birthing, too. I have re-birthed my Self.
I gave birth to this thing, this girl/ This woman who is a part of me, and she is of me. She is my daughter who I aborted she is my Spirit Zen Goddess she is my Lionheart/ She is my hero, my "Feminist-Hulk," my Amazonian warrior, my Priestess. She is and I am all of these things. She is me and I am it. I am her and I am that/ We are one and the same.

You don't have to be good

”You do not have to be good... You only have to let the wild animal of your body love what it loves.”  -Mary Oliver

Listen to your body,

The body knows.

The grey purple crags

In the distance

Topped by golden sun

And white cliff faces

Listen to your cries.

Sentinel holds vigil by

Your chair.

Your black furry coat

laying across your lap

And favorite grey sweater

(the one with holes in it

and the A&F logo that you

picked from the trash when

those two college boys were moving out) wraps you in a

kind of coziness that you

didn't know you were seeking.

Bob Marley sings on the radio,

”No woman, no cry.”

I always thought he meant

”I don't need no woman;

I won't cry,”

But maybe its not an independence anthem?

Maybe its a song about

Compassion?

Is he saying, ”No, woman,

Don't cry?”

Perfect orange on the table next to me from my neighbors'

tree signifying springtime in

Phoenix.

I have been called

A Phoenix by more than one

person lately,

Not insignificantly.

Not least

of whom, my Mr. B.

I still love him, you know. Will always.

My counselor Barbara says you can love someone

With all your heart and

That still doesn't mean

That you are supposed

to be

With them.

Thankfulness Jar

Sunny kitchen mornings. 
Saying the true thing. 
Building community. 
Spring rain. Cozy sweater. Sunshine. 
Cup of warm coffee between my knees. 
Book. 
Backyard in my underwear. 
Bare legs. 
Robin, yoga, Stella dog. 
Rides and joy and tears. 
Murals. Slow coffee. Morning walks with dog. 
Sweet morning cuddles. 
Yoga yoga yoga. 
Breath breath breath. 
Self-love. Folding into the space within. 
No fear. 
The cat came back. 
New farmers markets. Sunshine and wildflowers. 
Grow House. 
Sleeping enough. Cozy white cloud comforter. Morning trees. Dawn sky.  
My excellent bed and sheets and pillows. 
Rebirth. Snake eating tail analogy. 
Stones, moving, holding, grounding me. 
Sand cars. Art/chickens. Growth. Release.
Beautiful Lulu. Panini-pancake kitty, my familiar. 
Grace. Magic dreams. Stella sentinel. 
Restoration. Receiving. Ritual. 
Making new. Green Hair. Gratitude-healing. 
My sons. Their father. Faith. 
My own power. Giving gifts. Bear fetish (Zuni, and other.) 
Red kayaks. Self love. 
Divine love (mine.) 
(Yours too.) 
Instagram. 
I choose what is important to me. Sunshine on my face. 
Phoenix Bird. Naming. Trust. Light. 
My own divine presence. 
Sunday morning sweetness. Genuine love. Unneedy love. 
Love love love. 
Bee. 
The warm soft hug of my sweet boy. 
Skinny teenage beardy shagginess. 
“Today I will.” Hope. 
Eye pillows. Lavender. 
My legs.
My intuition. 
Gifts. Small victories- big hopes. 
Sunrise.
Self-mastery. Not giving away my power. 
Sunshine on my pain. 
I am at peace. I have all that I need in this moment. 
Heavy crying, release. Accepting change. 
Slow peaceful mornings. Watching my garden grow.

Post-meditation Thoughts

Post morning meditation
Sunlight penetrates my third eye (ajna)
through this open window.

Dog and cat snooze on the couch
awaiting their breakfast.

Silence = death

[TRIGGER WARNING]

I learned to be silent at an early age

Always told “Not now. I’m taking care of your brother,”

or “Leave this table right now, young lady. Go to your room

until you can behave like a human being.” or

“We don't fight, we play peacefully with our siblings.”

“If you guys can’t work it out peacefully then go to separate rooms

until you can talk to each other kindly.”

They meant well, but this kind of parenting made it so that I spent

a lot of hours screaming my anger into pillows,

which could not hear my pain,

could not act as witness for what had happened to me/

could not protect me from myself.

Writing my sorrow into journals, which were deeply hidden from all,

only to meekly come out of my room  a little while later

with a forced smile on my face so I could be accepted again

and a “willingness” to play peacefully. Did we ever talk out our disagreements

after that forced solitude? Or was it forgotten/swept away, to the

relief of my tired parents

who only wanted to sit and drink their beers or their coffee in peace?

No one knew my shame.

What he took from me, that blonde-haired bastard who

shit on my house,

was something I was not even aware that I had; it

wasn’t something I knew could be stolen,

but it was, and he did. And I hid. I hid from my pain and

I pushed it away and I layered it under cushions and

blanket forts

until I no longer knew that it was there.

I smoked cigarettes and I listened to loud music to drown it out

and I drank and fucked and drugged.

But the shamepain never went away, it only stayed hidden

except to peek out when I was in the middle of a sexual

experience and something happened that was too much like

what he did to me and then it would all come rushing back,

but before I could see it/feel it/know what had happened

I would leave my body. I would magically disappear  into

the safety of my blanket fort

and let whatever man was fucking me finish what he was doing

without my having to be there to feel it.

I spent a lot of years hurting but not knowing why.
I spent a lot of years being told I was “too sensitive” or made to feel like a

freak for jumping when someone came up behind me, or startling when I heard

a loud crash.

I spent a lot of years thinking that the only way out of that pain spiral was

to drown it in alcohol, just one more beer at the end of the night,

or push it as far away as possible by cleaning--

obsessively, and with a toothbrush--

all the gunk around my kitchen sink

or brushing and flossing my teeth upwards of seven times a day,

as if I could wash brush floss rinse away the thick layer of

hate that spread over my tongue

when he left his seed on me

and walked away from my tiny blonde innocent body,

with the Shirley Temple ringlets on her little sweet head.

Shirley Temple was my hero. I wanted to be that cute little child with the

serene but impish twinkle in her eye

tapping away her troubles on the good ship lollipop

But I wasn’t her. I was me. and I was scared of everything and I was

afraid to tell anyone what he had done

and I was afraid to death of being raped. I had nightmares every night of my life that

some “Him” was trying to break into my bedroom window at night to take

even more of my self away from me

I silently screamed in my dreams, not running, my feet frozen

to the painted concrete floor of my bedroom

silently screamed for someone to help me,

for him to get away, anyone!

But my voice had already been stripped of me,

as was my sense of self-worth and dignity.

The hooded, faceless man, with his large hands reached out for me,

or chased me, and I

could not walk away, was pinned there,  always waiting frozen/powerless/for someone to

save me.

But no one ever did.

In my adult life, afraid still, always worrying that I was going to be raped. Not knowing why,

not having a voice even to say to my husband when I was upset about something,

and when I did manage to tell him ,it was my fault anyway.

You, blonde bastard,  ook away my voice, and now I am taking it back. I will not be silent anymore.

I am not afraid of you anymore. I will kick you in the teeth if you come near me again.

I will take my balled up fists and I will fight you,  with all of my power. i I will punch you in your sick face and

then I will spit on your dead eyes. I will call the police and tell them that this fucking sick

excuse for a man raped me when I was five years old.

Of course i don’t know where you are anymore, if you are even alive. I am buddhist in my principles but I have no forgiveness in my heart for you, you poor excuse of a human

I have no tonglen in my heart for you. I have only sorrow and anger and pain.

I have only pity. Which is as close to compassion as I can get for you.

I want to forgive, and be Christlike,

I want to sit under the Bodhi tree and I want to climb the mountain and I want to say

to the heavens that you

are human, just like anyone else and that you deserve compassion

love, even.

But I can’t. Because I hold hatred in my tired soul for you. I hate what you took from me, I hate

that I stripped because you hurt me. I hate that I let boys and men touch me,

because I wanted to be worth something.

I hate that I never told. Until now. I hate that I let your piece of shit little

one worthless act

keep me hiding in shame for so long.

I will not be in shame anymore/ I will speak about this. I have found my voice and I will shout it out to whoever will listen. I don’t have to be quiet anymore. I don’t have to be peaceful when it makes more sense to fight. I don’t have to acquiesce. I don’t have to keep myself safe

anymore because I am grown and

you can’t hurt me. What you did to me can’t hurt me anymore. I take it back, I claim it. It is MINE.

I won’t be silent any

more.