Lava tables and jumbled sleep

My soul slid through the narrow breach like molten lava whilst my trunk got stuck on its junk. I pulled and pried until my soul hardened, sealing the crevice only to break up into jagged rubble once cooled. Only my heart remained warm. It grew and grew until it took flight and left the trunk covered in ashes to rot on the ground.

My soul soars higher without a weighty pen. As a proclaimed artist, so many times I focus on what the pen is doing that I forget what the pen can see.

Look here…

The table is enormous and yet extremely crowded with a boisterous, extended family of lives. There is a woman desperately looking for a place to fit. To sit down. No one moves to let her in. Nor should they. They all belong equally. She sees a space on the corner with a wobbly chair and broken plate. Enough space, enough. She sits, she fills her plate. Her body straightens, her smile broadens, her shoulders even out.

Just trying to sit down…

I am up in the middle of the night scribbling dream induced words on the back of an old prescription paper. I believe myself to be desperate to find my place to sit down, hungry for my chance to eat at a table filled with food that won’t harm me. I fight with words on a page, slam the delete key too many times, contort simple phrases into jumbled consonants and question every inspiration, doubt each opportunity, long for any free moment.

Images of strength are vivid in my sleep, they fade closer to awakening.

I fight to stay there, awaken I always do.

I am lying here

I am lying here
my hands crossed over my chest
my heart beats faster than it should
my skin feels every thread of fabric surrounding me
my breath barely reaches beyond shallow

I am lying here
hands crossed over my chest
unable to awaken any part of me
have I done the right thing
will this finally heal me

You are lying there
cross over chest
eyes closed
lips sealed
light shines

I am lying here
You are lying there
long passed
We are not the same

Untitled Post because I just don’t know…

I have always wanted to be a mom, to have babies. When I was a little girl, I used to dream of getting married and having four babies – two boys and two girls. I had some names picked out like Christopher Richard and Anastasia. My sister and I used to pretend we were having babies (i.e., in “labor” – when you’re about six or so, who knew it wouldn’t be “fun?”) with our Baby Tenderlove dolls. It is one of the few memories I have from our house in San Antonio.

Even  my dreams of being a famous actress came in second to being the world’s greatest, most loving and ultimately cool Mom. I would imagine myself onstage accepting my Tony Award and looking down at my children in the front row, dedicating the award to them, telling them how much I loved them and was so glad they were my true life.

The greatest part of that dream has come true – I am a Mom. I have two beautifully amazing children – one boy, one girl – about nineteen months apart. They are currently nine and eight. As far as being the penultimate parent? Well, you’ll have to ask my kids about that (but not today, as I am a bit grumpy). And, no, there is no Tony Award in my near future. (still holding out hope to work that in someday…)

Why am I writing this? Good question. I don’t know other than why do I write about anything here but to wrench out some meaning behind feelings, dreams and/or occurrences in my life. And hormones. I may have written a few times about those. ;0)

I have been having dreams lately about being pregnant again. Just last night I dreamed of myself with a full, round belly excited at the prospect of another child. One of those surreal dreams where I could almost touch the stretched, smooth surface and feel the baby moving inside. I was also heating cinnamon rolls and lettuce via a refrigerator toaster oven while my entire extended family gathered around a large table. It was an odd dream.

Odd especially because – not sure why it matters, but feel the need to state it – I am 41. I haven’t tried to get pregnant for, well, about nine years now. My husband had the v-snip about four years ago to ensure our family size maintained its status quo. I agreed to and even had to legally sign-off on that decision way back then. Getting pregnant again has long been out of the picture for me.

And, oh yea, one other thing – I had a hysterectomy about a year and half ago. I may still have my ovaries, but due to the fact that it was on its way to falling out and I needed other reconstructive surgery to repair damage during childbirth, I have no uterus for a womb. My tubes have been shut off to any egg deliveries and there is no cervix to dilate. In short (which, I know, is not possible for me), I am no longer a physically functioning instrument of human reproduction.

There. I’ve said it.

Then why the dreams? Why the twinge of heartache when I feel whatever eggs I have left being expunged into the empty cavern where my uterus used to be? Am I doubting a decision that is irreversible? The time for that was nearly two years ago. Could it be that I fear my track record so far as a Mom and would like a do over? Is it grief – still? If so, how does one properly grieve a uterus? Should I have kept it and buried it under a budding tree as a way for it to continue it’s sole purpose of supporting fetal development?

I have actually wondered what happened to it. I was, of course, under general anesthesia and have no freaking clue what went on after I was wheeled into the operating room other than to comment about all the massive amount of stuff they had in there. I felt so calm that day, so sure it was all going to be all right.

And it is.


My body is different – feels different. I have residual pain from one of the other surgeries they performed that day which doesn’t help matters and can get debilitating if I am not careful. Though, it is nice not having to worry about when I can go swimming or plan a vacation around a 28-day cycle.

And yet…(think long pause – like the one in Aliens where Sigourney Weaver’s cigarette ash was two inches long…)

So, now that I’ve reached the end of the blog arc, what’s my usual conclusion that I can pull into my psyche all wrapped up in a curly-q bow in order to move forward and find some peace about my withdrawn uterus?

Unfortunately, all I’ve come up with is this haiku.

Altered instrument ~
What life can I produce now?
Spring winds move the trees.

Emergency Blogcast System

This is a test of the Emergency Blogcast System. The blogger you are reading in voluntary cooperation with her keyboard and other authorities (i.e., her brain and emotions) have developed this system to keep you informed in the event of an emergency get away. This is only a test.

It was a dark and stormy night. At least, that’s what her brain was telling her. The thunder roared all around her as if the infamous Concorde itself was crashing in her backyard. Lightning blinded her vision every few seconds and the rain poured in like bullets from the many holes in her roof.

“When will this end?” she cried softly underneath the wet blankets she pulled over top to shield herself.

As the woman lay sobbing, she plotted her escape. She knew in order to be free of the torrential downpours that consistently destroyed her home, she had to get away. She had heard of a place once where it hardly ever rained and when it did, it was like dew drops kissing the earth. Nothing like the laser guided water cannon she was experiencing tonight. She longed for that place and prayed with all of her soul to find out how to get there.

She’d had road maps before on how to find it, but it still eluded her. She sought the directions of many who had claimed to make it and come back to tell the tale, yet here she still lay, soaked to bone and jolting involuntarily with every thunderous cry. She didn’t think those directions were purposefully misleading or untruthful, they had only led her to a certain point in the journey and then stopped. She was now in a middle ground area without guidance or any more useful clues on how to complete this trek across baron countryside, dense forests and steep, steep mountains.

She had kept going thinking that for sure there would be some sort of mile marker or sign in the path that indicated she was still going the right way, but those, too, had stopped appearing many unthinkable miles ago. Or maybe she had just missed them because she could barely see through darkness. She only traveled in the cover of night as her days were spent pretending the night would never come all the while obsessively stocking supplies for her eventual underground travels. Now she feared she was totally lost without the ability to find her way back to where she was nor the stamina to keep going forward.

This was not the first time her quest’s path had veered dramatically from what she thought it was supposed to be. In fact, she was surprised she had made it this far. She had wanted to give up numerous times before, but something, something greater than herself, kept her going.

And now?

Well, now she was just fucking tired. She was tired of always picking up the reins of the horse to lead the carriage through the next deep valley or raging river. She was tired of looking to other people to take those reins with her only to be told that it doesn’t work that way. She must do it on her own. She looked around her and saw others doing it, why couldn’t she? She heard other folks get the words of encouragement needed to keep going, why wasn’t she hearing any?

So, on this night, the one that had become so dark and stormy, she decided she was done. She reached out and threw off the covers. The rain hit her hard enough to knock her back down. She got up again and stood strong. She looked around and tried to see which direction she would take. By all accounts and previous experience, she knew she should take the path to the right. It provided cover from the rain and there was a fifty-fifty chance she’d make it to next clearing before collapsing in exhaustion. Then she could rest again and start over. At least she would get respites from the rain.

The path on the left, however, looked less familiar, more daunting. There was no cover from the rain or lightning. The horizon was far off in the distance and she knew it would be dangerous and the opportunities to get lost again were great. It was totally open, no way to mark where she had been in case she wanted to find her way back. No way to plan which way she would proceed forward in a linear fashion. She could easily think she was walking in a straight line, but end up having curved far to the east or west without ever knowing it until it was much too late.

There was one benefit to this left pathway – it was full of sunshine. She could not see a cloud, well, at all. None. Just warm sun basking on the ground below.

It took her only a moment to make the choice. She took a deep breath, smoothed out her hair and took a step. Then another and another. She began to run. She ran so fast, she was quickly out of view…

If this had been an actual emergency, the Attention Getting Signal you just heard would have been followed by official information, news or instructions on how not to find the true location of the blogger.

Upon considering Breakfast…

Don’t we all have some Holly Golightly in us?  The incessant race to get away from ourselves into the imagined person we want to be?  Running away from love to find more misery and reason to run instead of staying where we can find comfort and joy?  Is it the fear of not finding that comfort and joy to be enough that keeps us on the run? What if we were to find the love of our lives to not be all that we had ever been told to dream?  Or the happiness we are taught to spend a lifetime searching for to be a let down when we arrive there? Better to run from misery to misery, right, they never disappoint do they?  Sadness and despair are determined to not fail at their success.  But love and happiness – we have tricked our minds and hearts to believe they may not be real or lasting.  Do we ever believe the same about despair?  We all to often convince ourselves we will NEVER feel different, that we will always feel miserable.  What if we could swap out that same old fucking formula?  Trade out misery for happiness?  Keep sadness at bay rather than joy?

As deeply as pain can grip a hold of our hearts so can contentment and peace because they are our true selves.  We are born happy, unmarred, innocent souls with a treasure trove of laughter and acceptance and oneness.  It is only as we are aged by grownup time that we begin to filter out our original nature and retain the fear we are taught.

I did not know I was afraid of the dark until someone brought fear into my darkness.  I did not know how to be sad until it was told to me that must be why I cry.  I recognize this now that I have children with whom I have unknowingly taught fear much like it was taught to me.  That can be the only explanation for a grown woman to be afraid of a smile so all encompassing that it could lift me off the ground into the waiting arms of my spirit who unconditionally loves every molecule I am made of.

Should we never fear anything?  No.  Should we accept all that exists in our lives?  No.  Is it always up to us to find our happiness?  Yes.  Is this where the limits of my capabilities to stretch beyond this concept end?  Yes, for now.

I allow the din of many other voices to crowd my heart until it may burst into a million pieces.

I must let go to allow the symphony of the fugue fill my being until it pulsates with the life force that maintains its beauty.

But sometimes, I foget how to get to Tiffany’s…

Hot shame and cross blogging

In this new world of blogging and having blogging friends and commenting acquaintances, I, too, felt some flashes of hot shame while reading others comments.

One in particular caught me as I read a friends blog that referred to my blog and the comments posted on it.  It triggered that flash of hot flaming shame I know only too well and struggle daily to keep under wraps.

There buried in the numerous comments from her fans was a remark that flushed me with that same flash of red over my head and down to my toes as if the person screamed it in my face hoping to get me to move.

“ carefully constructed it was clear the author was taking few risks…”

Had she read my blog entries?  Was she writing about me?  Why does it bother me?  Of course I edit and change and exaggerate to bring my warped sensibilities to the small world I call mine.  From there cascaded a shame attack and run of what I’d written through my head.

I’ll show them, I thought, I’ll just write – unedited for 15 minutes and see where it gets me.

And that is what I am doing right now.  Writing plain and simple from my head to my fingers to my keyboard without hitting the delete key or backstroke – unless I misspell hte wodr.  (hahaha)

I set a timer and promised myself to do this at least once – not go back and sensor myself.  However, in doing so, I find little to write about.  I want so much to take these plain words from my lips and make them unique and flowered like Texas bluebonnet hills beside busy highways.

It’s the writer’s greatest dream, isn’t it?  To achieve absolution from all of the soul searching and human angst with a few strokes of a pen or taps on a keyboard.

6 minutes left.

My brain works much faster than I a can possibly keep up with in reality.  I certainly hope that I can spill out what is inside into a jumbled mess on white paper and then go back like a jigsaw puzzle to make sense out of it, rearrange it, alter it, give it a make over, and make it more enjoyable for someone else to relate to in some fashion.

I find it hard to believe that anyone could actually like the way I write without this added layer of cut and paste.  Maybe that is my old insecurities rearing their not-too-attractive head inside my much too comfortable skin these days.  I still, after all these years, want people to like me.  Like what I do.  Like what I say.


The other comments referred to Buddha and struggle and joy being one in the same (my paraphrase – remember, I cannot go back and check or fix).  If this is true, me and Buddha are tight.  There are moments when the joy I feel is so intense that a small pain erupts in my chest.  My daughter’s eyes.  Her giant, brown eyes that seem to go on forever.  My son’s smile – the one he lets me see only by chance anymore because he is trying to be so grown up, so tough at nine.

These are joys and they pang my heart.  Can you imagine what I make of my actual struggles?

Only a minute to go now…

I cannot even perform this exercise without trying to do it “correctly” – constantly checking my time to see if I’ve “cheated.”  What the fuck is wrong with my brain that I won’t let this totally go?  Will it be gone when it’s my time in heaven?  What if I don’t believe there is a heaven or hell?

Uh-oh…time’s up…

Will have to leave the rest for another post.

I guess I don’t type as fast at I thought.

(And, yes, these last four lines were typed outside of my self-imposed 15 minute timer…;o)