Fuck that. Fuck everyone’s fucked up conceptions of love.

 

It is not some hierarchical, ineffable contorted thing held away from us. It is top the top rung. It is not differentiated between one thing or another – “oh that’s just infatuation” or “it’s not TRUE love”

No, fuck that shit. Love is all.

Love is open fucking arms to the wind. Love is elemental, electric, magnetic, surreal, sublime, mundane, slogging, slimy, addictive, horrifying, firm, soft, elegant, fiery, forceful and oblivious. Love is all things. Love is so much better and so much easier than we say. Stop getting in your head about it, stop blowing it up to be a demon that will haunt you. YOU will haunt you, if you let yourself…but not love. LOVE will create you, if you let it. Love will guide you. Love will inspire, bemuse, transform, translate and connect you. To all things,

Falling in love, being in love. Yes, these are sacred things. But they are not lofty. Elitist. Obtrusive. People’s minds, people’s psyche’s, people’s hang ups, people’s fears. Those can be obtrusive. Love is a goddess. Love is a healer. Love is an open door. Love is yes. Just yes. Yes to life, yes to all things good and growing. LOVE is not to be feared. Love is healer. Love is the only thing that makes sense to me.

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Watching this Republican debate I can feel my insides churning with disgust. The hate spew and vitriol is depressing, to say the least. Horrifying, truly. And I snuggle Jamie back to bed and I wish I had a better world for him. I wish I had so much more for him. This isn’t the right world, baby, this is just a dream world. That place, that love, that place of partnership and honest understanding…it’s waiting for us baby. It’s waiting for you, baby. And I don’t know when or if we’ll ever get there, in reality or in our dreams…or in the next universe or the one hiding behind this one. Or in the multiple realities sliding along our atoms. But wherever that peaceable understanding is, that Great Love, it’s worth fighting for. It’s an ideal worth being called an idealist for. It’s hope in raw form. It’s all we have. Hope. And the fighting flame within us that says we can be better. We can do better. We can rise, like light, like storm, like feather, like smoke. We can rise. We can be so much better. Let’s hope for that. Let’s fight for that. You deserve it baby, the clear blue sky. And I do too. We all do. We the people. Of the united planet we all are stewards of. Of the beating heart of this species we are evolving into. The humanity that is worthy of this planet.

Give me hope or give me liberty. Give me both and nothing less.

Call me an idealist…at least I have something with fighting for.

Sharing this world, sharing this world. How come we don’t share this world we could never possibly deserve to own?

How could I bring a baby into this world? Because I have hope.

Because the fall from Eden comes, yes. Naturally, life is chaos and destruction. But also, there is hope.

Be a soldier for a better world. Whatever that may be.

Oh if only I could capture all those rustling sounds that whistle through a brain. Life and the oxygen of love. Sweet boy Jamie making leaps and bounds and connections and conscious awareness. Just running uphill. Connecting dots. What a fantastic thing to witness.

And snow, it’s silent white majesty. I love when nature wins. When she slams us to the ground and reminds us how small we are. How fast and powerful the earth is. The snow, the wind, the blinding light of white. All of the beautiful ways that winter smells. The light, that winter light. How it glows and flows through silent shadowed longings. How it hangs in the atmosphere like dew. Like petals unfurling inwards.

Sometimes the words in and of themselves are the thing.

I will never tire of this planet. The way it ebbs and spins, the way land gathers up in bunches, twists itself out at ravines, gallops up peaks, swells towards inlets and shores and sideways rock formations. The way it juts and juxtaposes. Erodes and corrodes and creates anew and anew and anew. The way it never dies. The way it is never afraid to die. The way it hungers for itself, swallows the sun each night and spills forth new birth every morning. The way it hollows out and pulls gravity towards it like ashen rain. Like a spinning wheel of a brain. I will never tire of the wind, the rain, the sublime hurricane of light and cloud that swarms through the tropopause. The way we are always held. Always and always in electromagnetic patience and photosynthetic regeneration. The way we are this earth, firebone teeth and radioactive blood. We are the branches and skin of this rolling mound of sound. We are, we are. The earth’s children that sit upon her body and know not where we came from. Forgetting, always forgetting. And she – forgiving, always forgiving. Leading, unfolding, caressing, digressing, collapsing. giving forth, shedding light. Being light, giving light. Being home. Being mother. Being here.

I will never tire of exploring this strange and magnificent planet. The perfect rock in the sky we’ve been born to.

She called the sunset honey-gold. I felt myself melting into it. I felt all those things I thought I couldn’t feel anymore. I’ve still got it. Magic dripping out my fingers. But the world hunkers in on me and the suburbs drill my senses to greys and all the slimy patterns of the world ring songless. But if I lean into the light, if I perch myself just right on the lap of the world, the world sings back. The world leads me to that place of light and listening, and the world is glad I’ve come. The world is always glad we’ve come.

I don’t know what I believe anymore.

I’m almost there.

Love is the only home I know.

Aaahhhhhh life. Life. Life. Hello sacred sky. Hello sacred moon. Hello sacred water.

Breaking from the ground in a plane, there’s an almost instant feeling of life just flooding in to my skin.

It feels like everything else in my life is a dream, and this finally, is real life again. To walk, to run, to wander, to see, to feel, to explore. To scratch the surface of the world. To discover. I am always in love with discovering.

And there’s this list, perhaps….all the reasons why. All the reasons why I’m here now, with this child, with this life pointing in this direction – no direction at all.

 

To awaken from the dream.

And now, the soft dull edges of the sky…the windsome movement of the clouds, the endless aching cracks in the earth, the fiery breath of the tide. All the things that come rushing towards you, and all the things that blow you away in the breeze. All the things that make you just cells. All the things that make you just soul. That sea. That soulwater. That way the bloody horizon makes me feel as if it is me – reflected back at me. The way the answers to everything that has ever been known is written on waves – in tempered textures that tick of time and in hidden heiroglyphs that reflect and refract…lines and scrapes and little bits of songs. LInes and light in the water. Laughing at me, saying you already know the answer.

Shellrock bone and twisted sand stone.

 

The fundamental problem with treating something as sacred as creativity with the same dominator mindset we approach everything with. It’s capitolistic. The way we approach everything. Thus we cannot live “Creative lives”…you’re either an artist- a successful one, or you’re simply an amateur. This is dangerous and debilitating thinking. It makes art elitist, separate, and as simplistic as profit margins. Binary – winning or losing. There are fundamental problems with the way we approach creativity, leading a creative life and leading a life at all. To create is everything. Gives us meaning and brings out that which is wholly unique to a singular being. The commodification of people’s lives into automaton jobs and mindless tasks without respect to the sheer humanity of it all – this is a crime. This is a problem. This is soul killing. And so we all run around – soulless and meaningless and afraid. Rather than curious and empowered and full. Subservient and consuming. Rather than creating. A lot of shit gets built and a lot of shit gets made and consumed, but not a lot gets created. Not a lot of new thoughts get created, either. So we build piles higher and higher and higher of nonsense that doesn’t mean anything to any of us. We forget that things ever meant anything. We forget that we ever meant anything.

So a creative life, creative living. Everyone has something to offer. A partnership society.

In my most idealistic of minds, this is what I am striving for by being a Waldorf teacher. Spreading the hope in the new generation that art is life. That creating is a natural act of our souls. That in creative living, you create something singular to you, and that is meaningful.

The wind rattles the whole house and I can feel the skeleton bone pillars of this home creaking  where they stand. I don’t know where home is anymore. I’ve lost sight of the shore. I remember the shore pulling up to my feet at the water’s edge. I remember these tumbling rock formations and I remember the feeling of being able to run. Being able to do things on my on time, at my own pace, with my own grace. The last time I had a day to myself, for myself, all day…was a year and a half ago. There’s a lot people don’t say about motherhood. That ‘selfless’ stuff seems to be swept along in this category of “comes with the territory”. People just accept that as part of the job description. But the reality of it, the real, consuming reality of it…is impossible to describe. The consuming nature of it. The possession of it.

I always need adventure. I am always craving it. I am always wanting to fling myself out like light. To chase that aching moon across the horizon. Those days and nights…those endless hours I belonged to no where, to the stars…those often seem like the only real moments of my life.  Out there. In the world. Where only the world could hear me. Strange cities; unfamiliar lands; long, longing vistas; ancient, pebbly beaches; crumbling rock temples; light-speckled village-scapes; narrow, fumbling streets; hollow, musical dens. Places where the world was existing and I was existing inside of it. Places where I was existing. I always miss those me’s.

I’ll always get back there. Because that’s always what’s calling me. That’s always what’s holding me down to time. Moments that feel real. Moments that exist. In time and space. That you can feel with the whole shadow of your body. Where your soul has somewhere to dance.

Waiting to exist again. Always waiting. Always finding.

“People are always saying we’ve cheapened the concept of love by over-using the word, but I think those people have cheapened love by being so selective in giving it away. Love is not a special edition car or sneaker; its value doesn’t lie in its limited availability, but rather its refusal to die. I fall in love every day. With moments, gestures, books, foods, ideas, creations. And if I’m ever so fortunate to fall in love with someone who’s in love with me, I hope he’s done that too. I hope he’s loved people I’ll never meet and places I’ll never be. I don’t want to be someone’s everything. I want to be the dock he calls home. And I hope he’ll love every bird and fish and wave and wind and fear and triumph he encounters. What’s a boat for, if not to sail? And what’s a life for, if not to love?”

Wind sky and winter soil. These things are holding me now. All things are getting bitter with air and I am learning how to adore this earth for all her finely tuned melodies. This too, is a song worth singing. I just have to find that. And I think I’m learning how to find. I’m learning how to grind my life into a fine powder and let it dissolve around me. I’m learning how to have my head spin in 5 different directions and I’m learning to be ok with it. I’m riding a hurricane and it’s finally starting to feel like a wave, not a tsunami. I can handle anything.

I can handle frozen ground, hard to the touch, frost on the tips, diamonds in the field. I can handle this life. We all can.

Let it all be hope. And hope that life will find you.

Finally told Casey Palumbo about the separation and she said the clearest thing to me:

That’s sad, but also I’m
Happy for you, you’re a happy soul you should be in bliss                      BLISS

 

Bliss. That’s what it is. How could I forget about bliss? My favorite word.