that littlegirl is so tired.

 

She said to write. I imagine the implication is to do so honestly.

She said, “It doesn’t matter if it’s out of order, just get it out.” I told her I couldn’t. That I’d just sit there. That I wouldn’t know where to start. That it’s too much. That it’s stupid.

But she said to write. So I’m writing. I will wax poetic on my pathetic inability to function properly.

Music is impossible for me. I love to clean with loud music on that I’ll stop to dance to with the kids. I have so many fantastic memories of all of us dancing. Singing our hearts out. Laughing, wiggling, twirling around each other. So here today, I try to be motivated. I turn the music on, and I just start falling to pieces.

Maybe this is why I don’t want to actually do anything. Because everything reminds me of him? Everything feels like salt in an open wound. Everything feels like a punch in the stomach, a knife in the heart. Even cleaning his bathroom.

Today, as I listened and cleaned, I sobbed. Like really, really sobbed. My ache came out in bursts of regret, in anger at myself for not loving him enough, for not being perfect. Anger at myself because I let him slip through my fingers.

I feel like this is something I should be over now. But he was my life? He was the only thing I had that made me remember me. He was my anchor. He remembered me before I became this. He remembered me when it was just the two of us. He remembered me when I was just a girl. He KNEW me. He KNEW me. He was one of my best friends…

I get so mad at myself I could scream. Remembering conversations we’d had together. I can’t change the past, but God, why do I have to feel it? And if I don’t feel it, doesn’t it mean that I’m a monster? Pretending that this doesn’t feel like someone is gutting me, is that really going to make everything better? “Doing it anyway”; doesn’t that make me turn to stone?

I slip back and forth into the past, into the present, into the future. I can’t stay put. I keep falling. I wish I could describe it. It’s like, I’m here, I’m here — and then suddenly I’m watching a movie of years ago, when he was just so little, and these movies, they play moments when he’s smiling, or crying, or talking, or dancing, or running, or riding his bike, or saying, “Mom!!!”

And then I start heaving, like really sobbing, because I feel like someone is ripping me apart. It’s unreasonable to assume that I can handle this. It’s unreasonable to take someone’s child away.

He left. He never stuck around. He lived his life and partied and didn’t visit or pay child support or raise him. He didn’t put in the sweat and the tears and the hours of work and effort. He didn’t teach him to tie his shoes or ride his bike or to go potty in the toilet. He didn’t teach him how to do the dishes or clean out the cat litter. He didn’t teach him how to read or run or play guitar or anything. He didn’t do any of it.

And I get mad at myself for that reaction. Because that reaction is selfish and angry, and not at all what I should be indulging in, but it’s still there goddammit. It’s still there.

Sometimes I feel like this is something that can leak out of me, if I just knew how to drain it properly. Like it’s this swelling, this puss, filling me up, and making me hurt and feel sick, and if I don’t get rid of it, if I don’t dispose of it properly, it will make me sick. And could make me die.

I read that it’s possible to die of a broken heart. That that’s a real legit thing. That what can happen is that a really stressful event can cause your heart to damage because it’s so traumatized by whatever’s happened. And then I thought, “Oh my god. I’m dying of a broken heart.” Because I am. I’m dying of a broken heart.

The only thing I can imagine this could be compared to is the death of a child. Because he’s gone. And it’s not the same, and it’ll never be the same ever again. And so I’m dying of a broken heart.

There. I wrote. And it’s out of order and messy and gross and I won’t reread it or correct it and haven’t stopped crying the entire time I wrote it. I have been crying for hours. When will I stop crying? I didn’t even do this during any divorce. I didn’t do this when my parents divorced, or I divorced, or when I was going through all that bull shit in Hawaii. But I can’t stop now. It feels like death.

I feel the little girl inside of me, screaming, crying, begging for it to all stop. That littlegirl is so tired.

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The Hidden Truth: Evaluating the Easy Yoke

 

 

I grew up with a very limited definition of who God is.  I grew up with my religion’s definition of who God is as the prevailing definition of his character in the majority of the West.  So much so that the word “God” in itself holds an enormous emotional backlash or stigma–this can either be good or bad, but it is often associated with behavior and the approval or disapproval of it.

 

Many people parade themselves under the banner of this definition of God, but what these people — while good intentions might be their motivation overall, please don’t misunderstand me — are actually doing is limiting God.  They are saying that “God” only fits within “this context” and by “this context”, it usually means within their doctrine, in their denomination, and of course in their version of a bible.

 

By misunderstanding so many core principles, they have missed entire avenues for enlightenment and epiphany, and in doing so have unintentionally bound themselves, when the whole point Jesus was trying to make was the simplicity and freedom of spirituality, and the application of insight in terms of who or what God is/was in regards to the nature of his spirit and how God is universal and not subject to the confines of a “religion”, “opinion”, “prayer”, or “sophistication”.

 


 

Jesus simplified everything when he bypassed the Church and Pastor Avenue once and for all upon saying, “The Kingdom of God is within you.”  


 

Think about this– if the Kingdom of God is within us, it can never be stolen, can never rot, can never rust, can never be destroyed or exploited or controlled.  It can never be sold, bought, monopolized, illegal, subject to religious dogma, or various interpretations, because it would be

Universal, Accessible, Undivided, Whole, Nonjudgmental (in the sense that, gravity is nonjudgmental–it does not care who you are, it will not be active for some, but not others: it is always the same within the laws of its order), Non-preferential (the same as Nonjudgmental; it would not prefer you to be of certain criteria in order to interact with it, except that you are within the laws of its realm in order that it may operate according to its function), Unbiased, Fully Operative, Simplistic, Untouched, Uninhibited, Unfashioned, Unfashionable, Basic, Innate, Inherent, Pertinent, Unrestricted, Intrinsic, Unfathomable, Communicative, and best of all, not subject to people’s fluctuating opinions of it.

 

 


 

 

So if, for some reason, you are being told that you cannot or will not access the kingdom of God because of limitations someone else believes are characteristic of God, just remember:

their limitations are not your limitations and are also not God’s limitations.

 

 


 

Here’s the Criteria:  Is it Love?  Because if it’s Love, then it’s God.

And God is not Personal/Human Love, which is based on personal judgment, conditions, emotions, feelings, circumstances, fluctuations, etc.

 

 

Divine Love just Is.  Divine Love operates the same as any other force in the Universe, and that is within the boundaries of its nature: when you drop a ball, within the frame of gravity, it falls.  Within the context of Divine Love, it is the Energy that heals, protects, builds, nourishes, grows, fastens, strengthens, helps, stimulates, energizes, raises, etc.  If whatever you are assigning to God is not within the realm of these characteristics (unbiased?  nonjudgmental?  the same today and tomorrow and forever?), it is not God.

But just to throw something else out there:  There is absolutely nothing that God does not already encompass.  

 

 


 

“Love is patient, love is kind.  It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.  It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.  Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.  It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.  Love never fails.”  1 Cor. 13:4-8

 


 

Scrub your mind clean of the limitations you’ve learned to place upon God.  He is not limited in his ability to love you unconditionally; he is not limited in his ability to appreciate you for who he created you to be; and he certainly is not limited in his reception to anyone trying to know him.  There is no secret formula, hidden passcode, or VIP status that you should test; there is no specific religion, certain book, or secret handshake for you to learn: your ability to know him is as simple as sitting down, quietening your mind, and letting go.

Be still and know that He is God.  And he’ll end up showing you that he’s also not limited to any specific gender either.

 

 

 

 

 


 

how empty it is

 

 

It’s four o’clock and I’m already tired.

When I woke up this morning, the last thing I wanted to do was get out of bed. But I did.

With the middle bedroom somewhat empty, only containing a single twin size bed and an empty dresser, we started putting packed boxes in the corner. An empty plastic drawer container in the closet. An empty book shelf.

The girls have wanted to sleep in there. They love it. They rest on the bed, after having spread their blankets across the mattress, smile and look around.

“It’s so beautiful,” they say.

“Do you like how empty it is?” I ask.

“I do,” she answers with a sigh.

I promised her we’d get rid of the majority of her toys.

It’s funny that my little girl begs me to get rid of her toys. She says, “This way it will stay clean, Mommy.”

I find it interesting that “less” is more peaceful to her.

I sit in the room and want to throw everything I have away. It’s all just clutter. Pretty clutter, but still clutter. More to clean. More to detach from. More effort. More energy. More draining.

So today, I find myself sitting in their bedroom, sorting through things after I’ve assembled an extra large box with packing tape.

“Everything you don’t want, we’ll put in here,” I say.

This is when the first princess decides to keep everything the second princess doesn’t want.

But we still end up filling the box to overflowing.

I have half a garage of items we’ll get rid of. Corners of the living room full of items to remove.

I haven’t even gone through Bubba’s room yet. It’s like…. if I keep his door closed… maybe he’s in there. Reading a book. Maybe he’ll come out at any moment for a glass of water, or to talk to me.

I want to leave the house more and more every second. I know it’s naive, but I feel like if I just leave this house, I will no longer have to feel this. But, then, if I leave…. there won’t be his room anymore. His space.

It comes so suddenly, my emotion. Folding the shirts that he removed from his bag saying he didn’t need to take them. It makes me want to throw up, honestly. So much sadness, balling up in my stomach, knotting.

I know that I am not my sadness, and Bubba isn’t my sadness either.

But my sadness is so real, so tangible. So thick.

Despite it, I cuddle little girls and the baby boy. Despite it, I brush hair and I braid it. Despite it, I arrange meals and run the dishwasher and washing machine. I continue…. existing. But a little bit smaller. A little more achy.

Ships that have Sailed

 

Surfing the waves of my memories, I’m taken with the tide. Drowning, really. All those moments passed, pulling me further and further away from the shoreline.

And suddenly I can’t see the land. Suddenly I’m so far out that all I do is cry, gasping for air–drawing in large gulps of water. Sinking. I let go. My body limp with the release. Life passing before my eyes. Life that I can no longer grasp, because I am too far in. Too weak from struggling.

I hear songs we used to dance to. I remember his silly arms, awkward and flying around in the happiest manners. My eyes are open. I remember his beautiful smile. His laughter.

My body no longer jerks to fight what’s happening. I just sink. Remembering.

His two year old eyes. “I love your pocket, Mommy,” he says as he holds the locket around my neck.

His eight year old self baring scratches on his knees, learning to ride his bike in the alleyway.

His nine year old desperation. “I can no longer respect him.”

His twelve year old glee. “I can’t believe I’m about to be a teenager.”

And it’s all being swept away. Pulled really. Further and further away from me. I try to reach for it, but the water is strong against me. The water is so heavy, and my body feels like lead. I am screaming, but water muffles my cries. No one can hear me; no one knows I’m here.

Everyone is going on with their lives, thinking about their own ships that have sailed.

And I’m alone again.

You’re Going to Wake Up

Before I’ve opened the door, but even still as my hand is turning the knob, I am holding all of this emotion–containing it. Remaining intact. Sure, I’d let out a couple of tears, but I sat on the lid of my feelings as they tried to overflow out of me. I vehemently became dead weight on the lid. I could feel all of its force still, despite the fact that I was walking away from it. My back was facing it, but I felt the heaviness of its energy–it’s behind me, I tell myself. Don’t look back.

It’s not that I felt the threat of becoming a pillar of salt. It’s not that I wanted to pretend it didn’t exist. It’s that I wanted to be strong and hold myself together. I didn’t want it to get the better of me.

But as soon as my foot stepped inside, as soon as the door was safely closed behind me, I embraced these feelings. Inside, there was a little voice in the room that sang sweetly (and with poignant timing) the theme song that is ever-applicable to every aspect of our lives, always playing, reminding us of what we continue to forget: detach, detach, detach. Courageously singing in the face of our egos: Let it Go; Let it Go!

And then Lolly saw me. Rosy-cheek goodness, skin taut over the fullest of facial features, delicate and inviting in her pink princess nightgown dragging her little white blanket with flowers, careful, precious and sweet….

“Why are you crying, Mommy?” her best Cindy Lou Who impression, though without realizing her tendency.

“I let my baby go,” I say, dropping to my knees to hold her. Every part of my being began to cave in on itself.

Little girls in the other room are still singing happily.

“It’s okay, Mommy,” she coos. “You’re going to be happy.”

I release her from my grip to see her face. She looks my face over and says, “You’re going to wake up.”

It does feel like a bad dream. This whole thing feels like a bad dream. Will I wake up? Will this all end? Is this all just a result of too many sad movies? Or unsolved mysteries? Is this going to be something I recover from by only opening my eyes?

“I’m going to wake up?” I beg.

She smiles and nods, brushing the hair out of my face, “Yes, you’re going to wake up.”

She smiles so convincingly. She’s two, but she’s not two. I remember Bubba when he is two. I hug her more tightly this time.

“And Bubba’s going to wake up.”

How does she know?

“Bubba’s going to wake up?” I release again.

“Yes,” she smiles reassuringly, falling into me.

She pulls away and says, “You’re going to be happy; right, Mommy? You’re going to be happy now?” She pulls off my glasses that are sprinkled in my tears. “You’re going to be happy now; right, Mommy?”

I smile through my tears: “Yes, baby. I’m going to be happy.”

She smiles, awkwardly placing my glasses back onto my face, nodding in reassurance, “You’re going to be happy. You’re going to wake up.

The Illusion of Separate

There is no me;
There is no you;
but there is us.
When I forget
this simple truth
the division dissolves
the trust.
When trust has
vanished
we are tossed
by the winds and the
waves.
Our sandy foundation
collapses
among the reef
we sorely brave.
It is I!, I cling
to my false (and imposed)
“rank of Right”.
After cutting you
off at the knees
I set my sword
down for the night.
My dreams assure me
of my “warranted”
deserved
position.
No matter the histrionics,
I white knuckle power over
relation.
This imaginary
separateness
seems holy
and I look lovely in its style…
I accessorize it
with rhetoric;
I lace with expectations
in single file.
“You must be
just like me,” I wag,
“except you’ll never
be close. And I’ll
be sure to remind
you,” I’ll nag,
“as I remain
verbose.”

“Too tall!”
“Too short!”
“Too thin!”
“Too stout!”
All these claims
I assert with
shouts.
The truth is
that
in this peep hole for
a view,
I’ll always make
you doubt
what makes you you.

“It’s because I’ll
need to prove
something and
I’ll need to be
right. I’ll need
to monopolize
the entire fight.”

But living in this
separateness does
not make us any
fuller.
We’d be broken
from our wholeness,
our light becoming
duller.
Every moment we
forgot that we
are of the same
stuff.
Every moment we compete
to prove which one of us
is most tough.

But what happens to you,
happens to me;
if divided we will fall.
These facts are inescapable
despite our wrestling with it all.

“Survival of the
fittest” discounts
fingers and small
toes: it narrows
life to death,
and to spite the face
insists to cut the nose.

This eye can’t
tell this foot
that he should let it be;
an only hand
cannot provide
the funtions of an entire
body!

The tongue,
who’s pink,
doesn’t hate the pupil
“because of its different hue”;
the stomach
doesn’t tell the
liver he’d be better
without it too.

The audacity of a
thumb to assert
more value than
an ear; as if he
can translate
the perception
of sound to
cause the whole
to hear.

Separateness
is to estrange
what once belonged within

loving discourse.
Its detachment is
demonstrating
a consciously
arrogant voice.

It’s beautiful to be
distinctive: it’s
important to be
fully “us”.
When one can
embrace necessary
diversity while
recognizing the sinews
weaved in between,
this is where love is
cultured: this
is how to find
every harmonic
mean.