I miss my writing like I miss a lover. I’m always writing inside my mind, and these days I like what I see so much more. A great beginning, and another and another.
The other day I felt heavy and this is where I wanted to come. When I feel light this is where I want to come. This is home.
There are so many thoughts I don’t get down. Will they come back around? You never know and that’s the hardest part.
Knowing might be arguably harder.
How to ask a survivor to be open and contend with the unknown, when it takes so much energy.
This morning I saw a Sylvia Plath quote I liked and went down a Christina research hole. So now I know her whole life, and yet nothing at all. What struck me the most are the similarities in so many ways. Minus the suicide attempts thankfully.
Time to read the Bell Jar and actually finished this time. I was 80 percent there. What even is that?! How can you not finish?! Maybe unfinished is better?
Who knows if I had had her life at that time in the world. I think of the censorship and lack of support at that time. And how at any time this is the thing that often makes all the difference, being able to tell our stories.
Gunn street is closed today. The bright fuchsia car is in sight. I go down Peck anyway, that’s the mile loop.
Speaking of telling stories The Healing Power of Storytelling, Annie Brewster. I forget which podcast I heard her on. Will this help with another layer? Lately the sense is that while I enjoy consuming this material, being with these writers, outside is not where it’s at.
It’s time. I can’t resist much longer. Layers of self doubt and fear have sloughed away. It’s time. Don’t hold back.
Writing is like oxygen. I’m breathing. It’s warm and the sky is beautiful this morning.
Working on birthday plans for twin a and b. Nineteen years old. These benchmarks make me incredibly emotional, and reflective. I remember the girl who shared and shared with no off switch and very little consideration for how that person responded. I understand much more now. Time does that. And also there’s a lot I don’t.
What I found in Sylvia Plath this morning was a commonality to which we feel things. And look what that lent for her. But outcome is not the measure of a life. She felt more in her short life than many in a long one do.
And had the courage to capture it….
She was blessed. Blessed with depression and an abusive relationship some might say?! But she felt the heartbeat of the world and wrote it. Who did she serve ultimately? The muse ? Depression ? Societal expectations?! All of the above is usually the most sure answer.
It’s not black and white Christina.
The sky looks like purple snow this morning. Smelling and tasting the colors.
It’s a four client day, that’s a mini day for me. Hell it’s a vacation. But then there’s also room for restlessness.
I had a day the other day where I understood ocd more than I ever have. The need for control. The need for routine as a means for comfort. Routine is also the death of creativity and emotion, but so soothing. What a rub.
I felt close
I felt far
I was just thinking of how intimate it is someone’s rituals. How they get dressed, which order, in what way. And those last moments they are yours, indisposed. The last article goes on and then they are the world’s.
A different kind of intimacy. A smile a gesture: but so much unknown underneath those clothes.
If I could live in that in between always: the half dressed messy middle.
And just like that I put Shakira on….. I always loved this song. Her voice pierces me skin and resides underneath. Those are my favorites, the ones who can do that.
Spanish lyrics and piano, be still my heart.
Every mole, every curve, hairline at the neck, the pattern that is only hers. Hovering lips and breath at particular spots: what they look like. The world stops. The world turns. The skin of those places it burns.
Music touches my body and my soul. As I walk the earth.
These days I find myself grieving my life. The years I was dissociated from my self, essentially the entire first half. And the painful awakening.
And now I can find a miracle in laying in the grass and staring at the sky. Everything is emotional. And when I’m locked away from myself in an episode it’s excruciating, because I know what I know now.
So I crawl back to her and kiss her better, admire her strength, adore her smile.
The trees are magic. Stop and look at just one. The ability to see all the fine details, where each branch naturally lies.
Noticing is love. I notice everything.
Faith and peace and mercy and ground. My memories are always with me. I savor so many daily.
So many new to make. This in between exquisite connection as the default and all the old ways of disconnection. They sit and stare across the playground at each other, wondering are we friend or foe. Who do we align with?!
Disconnected her is as worthy and valued as connected her. We no longer cut off parts of ourselves for survival.
It’s safe. Now someone just please tell me nervous system that please. Re wiring is another matter entirely.
A new style of writing has emerged for me and it’s nearly terrifying. I recognize now this far down that I had no idea any of this would come out. In fact I had so many other intentions over the past few weeks.
I know how to let go now. Of control. And really that’s been my journey a very long time. To be able to cry when I felt that way. To have an orgasm.
I would describe it like having this emotional delay. Usually I have to be alone to access them, but there have been moments and times they happen organically and freely. Those are magic.
Maybe someday this is the body I will inhabit forever, fully connected. Will I still write, will I still be me? If that happens? Is it possible? So many unknowns.
C’est la vie
All my love,
C
Ps. hallelujah just came on and the sun began to shine, just now.
I joined Nicole lepera inner circle so I’ll be watching her and Jenna this evening and then a massage. Thank god. Please melt these stresses of everyday life and breathe energy back into my soul.