beads, beads, and more beads!

hello readers.... thanks for reading my page! right now i'm deep into beadwork, it's sort of taken hold of me again. I'll have more to write soon, but at the moment, i'm just beading.

Food is love

Bullshit!

I have believed this in one form or another my whole life... and I nosh, and nosh, and overeat, and make excuses for it. I have become fairly sedentary lately, and yet I continue to consume the same crap in the same amounts... or ever more. What conclusion can I draw from this, when I've applied the faulty logic of 'food is love' for about as long as I've been on the planet?

Food is self-hatred. Food is self-sabotage. Food is a fair-weather friend.

I'm just realizing this as I write! What an epiphany to have!

Question remains now, what do I do with this new, hard-won wisdom?

Not gonna go into detail at this time, but words to live by, i am reminded, are have compassion first, always, for everyone. I just got schooled, big time.

It's been a few days. I was away and not thinking about blogging.

I have a good reason to, now, though.

If you are my Facebook friend, you may have seen the title of this blog post on my FB page... here is where I will go into said detail.

I was on a bus yesterday evening/last night, sitting next to a very kinetic young man, who, at the beginning of the ride, was getting down hard to the music to which he was listening. It was pretty cute, but I was trying to take a nap and he kept bumping into me with his seat dancing. I asked him if he would please stop bumping into me so I could sleep. He got a majorly entitled attitude with me and then began to do things to annoy me on purpose. I've done a lot of personal work to be able to just ignore most annoyances, but not all of them.

Finally, he quit dancing and went to sleep. I, however, was already awake from the prior irritation. So I listened to my music, none of it dance music, and just looked at the scenery. He slept a long time, and woke when we got to our rest stop so he could go grab some food. He was a little late getting back and I had to go tell the bus driver to please not leave without him. That would have sucked. (I promise I am getting to my point.)

He ate his dinner as the bus got underway again. Then his phone rang. He had a tearful conversation (I gave him kleenex) with whoever was on the other end. When he finally finished talking on the phone, I gave him another kleenex and asked if he was all right.

Come to find out he had just landed from a tour of duty in Iraq (special dispensation; he was still serving) because his parents and young son were in a car accident... they were hit by a BUS!!! His son sustained a broken arm and his father was in critical condition on the operating table.

My heart broke when I heard his story and it dawned on me he must have needed that music as an escape. Now of course I had no way of knowing any of this at first, which is why I realize that compassion MUST be one of the major filters through which I view my fellow humans, all the time, no matter who.

This will, of course, take some practice, but it is so worth it to me to be able to not only grow in that way, but to move heart first through the world. I usually do a version of this anyway, but it has not been enough and I need to step it the fuck up.

Life is a great teacher.

Sat nam
Namaste
Shalom

depression isn't always so much fun

ever wake up and just feel like it's all futile? Like no matter what you do, how hard you work on yourself, how aware you become, it just doesn't matter? I feel that way this morning. I feel like I've been just wasting my time and energy and who cares if I change and grow...

it's not a fun way to start the day and it makes me just want to crawl back in bed and sleep for a week, until maybe I'll feel better.

Not all my posts have to be inspiring or uplifting. this is not just a blog, it's also a journal of sorts. I know I am not the only one who goes through this kind of thing. I'd love it if you would read and comment... I hardly ever get comments.

It's not even that I'm feeling sorry for myself... I'm not. There are just some days when the point of all of it eludes me. I know I'll feel better/differently later, possibly within minutes. But this second... blah.

housework can be a real trip

I think it's why I have so much trouble with it. I'm not an organized person, to say the least. I also don't find cleaning therapeutic, as many of my friends do. I find it, in general, to be a big pain in the ass, actually. But I also know it's necessary sometimes.

I have duffle bags and boxes full of stuff I lost patience with and just shoved into something to get it out of my sight. Then, days/weeks/months even years later, when I look at it again, I'm not sure what made me save it, or perhaps I miss something that I threw away... why that is I don't know.

It can be fun to find old letters, school papers, pics that I haven't seen in forever... and if I have good music playing it can even be almost fun. That's what today was. Going through boxes and rereading and restashing or shredding. I got a whole lot done today and it feels really good.

and yet another of my poems - this one is entitled Affection’s Poetry

My love’s soft water laps against my heart

Wearing away the wearying walls of an old energy – a force that no longer thrives

Time allows erosion of pain, and wooded hillsides

We cling, like the trees.

We fear.

But as the forest fire must take the trees for new life to spring,

So must we let go of the eroded soil of pain.  LET her walls crumble!

LET them fall, long before Jericho…

No trumpet’s blare will breach these walls;

They’ll be gone ‘ere its arrival

Breathe…. Deep… moisten your insides with freshness

Dewy springdrops ‘pon leafy green rain

Dense and soft the misty mist of the baby ancient forest, primeval

Soft rustle of ‘corns, not far, shimmers the glade

And as the single proud standards sported ‘pon their noblest of noses

So the bud, the single tender bud of baby ancient self does push its sweet pink head through life. Itself!

Again you can see your soul reflected in the pool from which you stop to drink – and stay, locked with highest self in a gaze of recognition

Works of hugs present their sacred selves through tendrils of love twisting greenly in your arms

And round yourself go those very arms

And as you wrap up in a loving gaze with highest self in softest hug, you become 

And clasping shoulders of your very own, with the gentlest tug, up you joyously pull!

Up! Up! a magic beanstalk of a soul!

That catapults you into Whitman’s Wing of Galaxy, the Plato Place,

Shakespeare’s Own Idea of Perfect Paradise

Penned in your footfalls on the earth and sky.

and I don't know if this is a poem, but I wrote it 12 years ago

the "she" in this piece is not an actual woman, but a symbol for the experience of obsession that I've had in the past. see what you think...

obsession

it begins harmlessly enough. a thought. a smile to
myself. secret self-satisfaction and a subtle
sweetness i cannot name. the thought comes again.
bigger. louder. more colorful. my heart squeezes in
my chest. my mind pumps out a thought again. she is
always there, but i don't always know it, until...
there it is again, sudden, like a knock on a door. i
don't want to answer and keep thinking these
thoughts. but she's there. i can always feel her; i
know she's there though i don't always see her. i
like it. the feeling always makes me feel alive. i
want it, the something to think about, look at,
listen to inside my head. my heart races. the spiral
starts. she is walking in circles in my mind,
looking through windows into my inner life. she is
barefoot. i feel her toes curl inside my inner skin.
she is vivid and lovely. she runs her fingers along
the wall as she walks, moves silently and
stealthily, planning her next attack. she is always
there, behind every corner of my mind, ready to show
me her wares, ready to whisper to me. she looms
large; i fear i'll never think of anything else
again. she is close, teasing me. i feel her breath
inside the nape of my neck. i shudder. she isn't
real although i can smell her. what i wouldn't give
to have her, right in front of me. what i wouldn't
give if she thought of me as i think of her. up all
night, sleepless, composing endless letters,
daydreaming and wishing for me. if i were that one,
what would i do? would i run? would i hide? would i
go inside my mind and meet her in hers? pick up the
scent she left behind to guide me to where she is...
she eludes me. teases. loves the attention. 

and here is a list poem I wrote, also several years ago

Depression can be fun

sweating

swelling

smelling

rotten

bits

dish-stuck

food

buzzing

flying

skittering

exoskeleton

dust-busted

kitchen

safari

fucking

fruit

flies

sheets

stains

dust

floor

random

piles

unmoving

crying

thumb

sucking

rocking

hugging

wailing

singing

writing

eating

dwelling

buzzing

smoking

actually

getting

out

of

bed

shower

later

back

is

hurting

so

what

else

is

new

mess

mess

mess

mess

mess

what

will
set

it

off

next

time

?

poetry

this is one I wrote several years ago; it is my one and only prose poem and I love it. it's called BABY.

Baby

There was a baby who went into labor; her breaths
came hot and sharp. Her mother stood by to coach her
and replace the pacifier whenever it fell out. The
baby's belly wriggled and moved. Her mother stood by
to breast feed her whenever she was hungry. The baby
cried and moaned in pain. Her mother stood by and
said, "I can see the head!" The baby pushed with all
her might and labored well into the night. Her
mother stood by to help deliver and as the baby bled
a river, out came the adult she would become. The
baby passed out from the agony. Her mother put her
back into her crib to let her nap it off and then
cleaned up the mess. The adult showered, dressed, and left for work.

I'll share more of my poetry as I find it in various folders on my laptop. Hope you enjoyed this one!