[Six years ago to, essentially, the very moment I write this, I experienced an attack that devastated... completely obliterated my life. Physical, metaphysical, emotional, mental, spiritual---every aspect of my being was violated, violently.

I am compelled to write, though I feel so vulnerable and... weak. Maybe in a way that I haven't since the first steps of healing.]

I forgot. I forgot that I carry this trauma like a tattoo, on my scalp, hidden, but easy to find if you know which direction to move your fingertips. And places you can't know even if you wanted to which you don't.

I forgot how when I returned in the daylight, for recognition, for proof, for confirmation, for hope that maybe this was all a terrible terrible dream... I found flicker feathers, like a spell had been cast over my body, like yes this happened, yes I see you, a way of the earth as witness. Like the one I found today and noted without noting the date.

I forgot. 

I forgot that I still feel like I DID IT TOO. I forgot that the trauma sinks through time into all time into--how do I care for my self? How do I nurture my spirit? How do I share... you are safe, you are safe, you are safe. How do I say, you are good. How do I believe it?

How could I forget?

I forgot that I can still see myself, naked, sacred, flesh and wounds, an altar of grief. 

I forgot that maybe words or attitudes or body language that I don't know how to decipher can flip a switch without me knowing it. I forgot the warning signs.

I forgot to notice myself.

And where did this come from? Who did this? What is this shadow, this phantom that follows, that lurks, that gestured at the door I walked through that night, that whispered in my ear. It is what. Myself? And you too? What are we but extensions of each other? What is spirit but our essence?

What did we achieve that night except to forget our divinity, or find it in all the wrong places.

Pain, lately.... the truth of something without being able (knowing how) to communicate it... that kind of pain. The pain that gets caught in your throat or stuck to your chest like a magnet, freezing you in place. The pain of disconnect, of knowledge vs. control, or lack-there-of.

The pain of perspective. The pain of compression. Of change. The pain of the sun out of a dark room... of the air out of the water, the pain of fire, the pain of ice. The pain of confusion, dizziness. The pain of being lost. The pain of being found. The pain of finding yourself. The pain of fear of finding yourself.

Lost in Place

I have always had a way of thriving off of the requirements of high-energy situations. I avoid writing "crisis" or "chaos" because I don't think I want to affirm that in my life, but they may be the most accurate way of communicating what I'm trying to describe.

I LOVE the excitement of problem-solving with a *short* deadline. I know this is one of the key ingredients in my deep love of live theatre. Last week, we had an actor out sick, and had to figure out how to go on with the show (actor with a script), two months ago a prop needed finishing 20 minutes before opening night, then at intermission a prop broke and needed repair with five minutes left before the top of the second act. DELICIOUS.

This is important in understanding my current situation. In the middle of a major life shift/move. As we wait to close on our new home and current home sales... 


Granted, I can't be quite so hard on myself, this I know. Packing isn't fun. At least, not for most people. I can FIND the fun in packing... I like fitting things together, afterall. (this is why LEGOs are so successful, I'm sure of it, because it is so satisfying to fit things together) And I like where all this packing is going, but I know that I am being slowed by my fears and excuses and tiredness... 

Until now, there has been this amorphous "sometime this month" we need to be ready to move "deadline." Now there is an endpoint. There is a date. There is a clearly defined timeline, and I expect to feel like there is a surge of energy, readiness, to rise to the urgency of the situation. 

But no. I sit. I yawn. I resist. I grumble. Probably because MOVING SUCKS.

Even when the move is exciting (scary), and promising (scary), and delicious (scary), and you feel so ready (scared), there is no getting past the fear of change except to move through it. I have these visions of all the times I have moved (over 20) and all the times I've been caught by a time capsule of items and have to crawl my way out of the dark pit of "identities gone by" that comes with going through everything you've ever owned, or at least what's left of it.

I vacillate between the freedom of choosing what's next for me, and the fear that I don't know what that is. Even though there are all of these things I know... I know how to return to self to stay grounded. And here I am flailing. And so it's true and not true all at the same time. Or maybe just by writing this I am able to remember the truth.

I gotta go pack.


A love letter to my blog

Thank you for being here, even when I am not. There are so many things I want to say—not just to you, but to the world, to the vast expanse of existence, to the molecular, to the stars... to myself, even, to explore.

I think of you often. Knowing that you are here gives me a sense of comfort. Sometimes, I have feelings of grief or shame that I do not come to you more often... often, actually, I have these feelings. But you are always waiting, without judgement, without conditions.

I have so much to say...

And I am learning, now, how what I have to say is completely my own. I am learning, now, how maybe in the past I put myself up against this idea, of what *who* I thought other people thought I was. How I defined myself in relationship to how I perceived them perceiving me. That's how I identified who I was, but it was an illusion, it was a mirrror within a mirror. 

I am becoming. I become. In this, I recognize my connections and reflections as relationships, and define those relationships from a place of personal truth.

You are very important to me, blog. This is what I want you to know. My relationship to you feels as ancient as anything. It is a relationship to self. Thank you, for being here, even when I am not, through all of the painful and beautiful and mysterious. I love you.