Something has been weighing on my shoulders as of late. It doesn't really have a name, but it has feelings. For ease of understanding, lets call it bricks, each one with a label. Regret. Shame. Embarrassed. Unworthy. Disgusting. To name a few. Some of them are plenty - regret probably has the most bricks, along with disgusting. These bricks on my shoulders hurts, and they've made their homes inside my muscles and I feel the weight of their squeeze daily. Some days, I just know they are there. Other days, they are so heavy, that getting out of bed is excruciating.
I don't know what to do most of the time but ignore them, for fear of engaging is terrifying. I just feel so heavy with sadness that I wonder if I will drown in my own tears. What are humans supposed to do with such grief and regret? To say goodnight is always whispering in my ear, the alternative of continual carrying of this weight doesn't seem all that inviting. When my brain just replays all the "could-have-been's" and the "you are just too disgusting for anyone to want you", it takes a god damn toll.
So, here I am writing, hoping to alleviate some of the pressure in my shoulders. I try and remember the words my friends have given me about "hope" and other things that feel like utter nonsense. One day, one hour, one moment at at time.. one brick...
Saturday, January 19, 2019
Wednesday, July 4, 2018
independence day 2018 - racism
The idea was to reflect on what is on our minds this independence day. With so much happening in our country, the USofA, it is difficult to be in a celebratory mood on this "holiday".
Looking back into childhood, I see my country as "the greatest". It is what I was taught in school. We would pledge our allegiance, our innocent hands over our pure hearts. "With liberty, and justice, for all," our voices proudly declared, having no real understanding of what those words meant.
As white kids, we knew nothing of the deep racism that impacted our classmates and their families. We were taught "color-blindness", a fairytale idea that if you don't see color, color doesn't exist, therefore racism couldn't be real. We only knew of fireworks, bar-b-que, flags on porches, and police officers were the "nice guys". It wasn't until my teen years, when some of my best friends weren't white, that I began to see the ugly truth - america is racist.
Does that mean I don't see the good things that america has? Well, of course, but I see it through my privilege of having white skin. I can't help think that when I have a positive interaction with a police officer, my black and brown friends may not be so lucky. When I walk through my neighborhood at night, I don't wonder if someone is going to call the cops on me. I know the store security isn't going to stop my white sister and ask her if she paid for the stroller her baby is in. I do know they have stopped my brown friends.
And all this is what I am thinking about. The racist president. The institutions of racism that allows such horrific things to happen to our black and brown brothers and sisters. The asylum seeking migrant children and families who are caged on this day of independence. Today, I am somber.
But I have to hope. I want to believe that we can rise to the occasion of "land of the free, home of the brave!" I hope we are up to the challenge. It is going to require those of us privileged to have white skin to interrupt injustice. Our hands are no longer innocent. Our hearts, no longer pure. We know the harsh reality, and if we choose to ignore it, then we deserve the doom that will certainly impact us all.
Looking back into childhood, I see my country as "the greatest". It is what I was taught in school. We would pledge our allegiance, our innocent hands over our pure hearts. "With liberty, and justice, for all," our voices proudly declared, having no real understanding of what those words meant.
As white kids, we knew nothing of the deep racism that impacted our classmates and their families. We were taught "color-blindness", a fairytale idea that if you don't see color, color doesn't exist, therefore racism couldn't be real. We only knew of fireworks, bar-b-que, flags on porches, and police officers were the "nice guys". It wasn't until my teen years, when some of my best friends weren't white, that I began to see the ugly truth - america is racist.
Does that mean I don't see the good things that america has? Well, of course, but I see it through my privilege of having white skin. I can't help think that when I have a positive interaction with a police officer, my black and brown friends may not be so lucky. When I walk through my neighborhood at night, I don't wonder if someone is going to call the cops on me. I know the store security isn't going to stop my white sister and ask her if she paid for the stroller her baby is in. I do know they have stopped my brown friends.
And all this is what I am thinking about. The racist president. The institutions of racism that allows such horrific things to happen to our black and brown brothers and sisters. The asylum seeking migrant children and families who are caged on this day of independence. Today, I am somber.
But I have to hope. I want to believe that we can rise to the occasion of "land of the free, home of the brave!" I hope we are up to the challenge. It is going to require those of us privileged to have white skin to interrupt injustice. Our hands are no longer innocent. Our hearts, no longer pure. We know the harsh reality, and if we choose to ignore it, then we deserve the doom that will certainly impact us all.
Saturday, June 9, 2018
Teacher Thoughts June 2018
A whole costco sized bottle of advil later, the 2017-2018 school year comes to a close. I believe every school year gives teachers an opportunity to reflect, think, and hopefully, grow. Grow not only as a teacher, but as a human.
I have never been good at goodbyes. I hate the idea of never seeing someone again. Many of my students will be returning to me in late August, but I cannot help wondering what will happen in our time apart. And what about my seniors? I will not being seeing them come into my classroom, all sleepy-eyed and grumpy at 8:20am. Those are the kids I am thinking about the most.
I have one senior who has changed me in particular. When I first started at this school, I was warned about him. I was told to "be careful" and that he has "hit people in the past". The feeling I got from my colleagues was this kid was going to be my most challenging. And, holy bananas, they were right!
The first couple of weeks, this kid spent the majority of his time right outside of the classroom next to a garbage can. The garbage receptacle was large and had a flat top that you could sorta lean onto. Believe me, the metaphor here is not lost on me. He swore a lot. He barely came to class, and when he did, he'd tell me to fuck off and he'd stand in the corner until he left to go back to the garbage can in the hallway. He wandered the classroom a lot. Kids mostly avoided him. He didn't smile. This kid clearly learned a long time ago that no one would bother him if he was an asshole to everyone.
About 2 weeks in, I had finally decided this kid was going to be mine! I had to claim him as mine! I decided that he was going to know that he was mine and I was his teacher and that his bullshit wasn't going to work on me. When he told me to fuck off and he walked away, I followed him. He walked to another corner of the classroom. I wasn't intimidating or mean, I just walked with him to the corner. He looked at me, and I gently and quietly said "it's all good, we got a lot of time left together". "Fuck you" he said. My calm reply, "it's OK, I get paid to be here, and we can do this all day." He went quite, and I kept teaching from that corner of the room. He wandered around a bit, and I just stayed right next to him - it was maddening, and I am sure the other students wondered what the hell was going on. He was clearly testing me. And each and every other student was watching. The stakes were high. He walked into the hallway, and I reminded him of the classroom policy of calling security if he left the room without permission, and I followed through. Security brought him back in the room, where we continued our dance of "fuck off and wandering".
This dance lasted a few days. It was grueling. I wondered what I had set myself up for. I feared he was going to hate me more. I was terrified of not being able to convince him that I was there for him, I was there for each student that was watching. Then, the breakthrough happened. He stayed in class for 30 minutes. Then for 40 minutes, an hour... 70 minutes.... 80 minutes.... Each class a few more minutes... The kid stayed. He finally felt safe. This was March of last year (2017). We had a whole school year left together, and he was going to be a senior, and I was scared of this kid's incredible risk for drop out. His brother dropped out. His sister dropped out. He gave me a hug on the last day of school last year, and it made me cry, and his response, "stop fucking crying, Ms Angell!" of course, then I just laughed through my tears.
We began in the fall, as tradition holds. We started off as you'd imagine, testing the waters a bit. I held my ground, and he continued to blossom. I began to see and experience things with this kid that no one had before. He smiled. He fucking smiled! He said "Hello" and "good morning". He came into class right at the beginning of the day. He checked in with class during our morning check-in.
I don't want to give you the impression it was all butterflies and rainbows, because it wasn't! This kid had been practicing his fuckery for a long time, and he was damn good at it. He was hard to like, and teachers often complained to me about him. I didn't have a magic bullet, but I did learn that loving kids who are the hardest is the only thing that works, and it is the god damned hardest thing to do. I had to dig deep on some days, when he would just push, and push, and push his terrible at me. With his swearing and meanness and cruel comments spewed at me. Many days I just felt weary and depleted.
And just like when he began staying in class, he then began actively participating. This kid read out-loud for the first time. He completed independent work! He joked with the other adults. He got silly with his peers. We helped him peel away his layers of practiced avoidance and watched him begin trusting. He relaxed into being a teenager who was accepted. And while my classroom is only a pebble of space in his world, he was safe there. He was accepted. He was loved and cared for.
And last week, I got to watch him walk across that graduation stage. I saw him hold up his diploma, beaming with pride as he looked up at his parents in the audience.
And with that, this school year comes to a close. Love is the only thing that works every time.
I have never been good at goodbyes. I hate the idea of never seeing someone again. Many of my students will be returning to me in late August, but I cannot help wondering what will happen in our time apart. And what about my seniors? I will not being seeing them come into my classroom, all sleepy-eyed and grumpy at 8:20am. Those are the kids I am thinking about the most.
I have one senior who has changed me in particular. When I first started at this school, I was warned about him. I was told to "be careful" and that he has "hit people in the past". The feeling I got from my colleagues was this kid was going to be my most challenging. And, holy bananas, they were right!
The first couple of weeks, this kid spent the majority of his time right outside of the classroom next to a garbage can. The garbage receptacle was large and had a flat top that you could sorta lean onto. Believe me, the metaphor here is not lost on me. He swore a lot. He barely came to class, and when he did, he'd tell me to fuck off and he'd stand in the corner until he left to go back to the garbage can in the hallway. He wandered the classroom a lot. Kids mostly avoided him. He didn't smile. This kid clearly learned a long time ago that no one would bother him if he was an asshole to everyone.
About 2 weeks in, I had finally decided this kid was going to be mine! I had to claim him as mine! I decided that he was going to know that he was mine and I was his teacher and that his bullshit wasn't going to work on me. When he told me to fuck off and he walked away, I followed him. He walked to another corner of the classroom. I wasn't intimidating or mean, I just walked with him to the corner. He looked at me, and I gently and quietly said "it's all good, we got a lot of time left together". "Fuck you" he said. My calm reply, "it's OK, I get paid to be here, and we can do this all day." He went quite, and I kept teaching from that corner of the room. He wandered around a bit, and I just stayed right next to him - it was maddening, and I am sure the other students wondered what the hell was going on. He was clearly testing me. And each and every other student was watching. The stakes were high. He walked into the hallway, and I reminded him of the classroom policy of calling security if he left the room without permission, and I followed through. Security brought him back in the room, where we continued our dance of "fuck off and wandering".
This dance lasted a few days. It was grueling. I wondered what I had set myself up for. I feared he was going to hate me more. I was terrified of not being able to convince him that I was there for him, I was there for each student that was watching. Then, the breakthrough happened. He stayed in class for 30 minutes. Then for 40 minutes, an hour... 70 minutes.... 80 minutes.... Each class a few more minutes... The kid stayed. He finally felt safe. This was March of last year (2017). We had a whole school year left together, and he was going to be a senior, and I was scared of this kid's incredible risk for drop out. His brother dropped out. His sister dropped out. He gave me a hug on the last day of school last year, and it made me cry, and his response, "stop fucking crying, Ms Angell!" of course, then I just laughed through my tears.
We began in the fall, as tradition holds. We started off as you'd imagine, testing the waters a bit. I held my ground, and he continued to blossom. I began to see and experience things with this kid that no one had before. He smiled. He fucking smiled! He said "Hello" and "good morning". He came into class right at the beginning of the day. He checked in with class during our morning check-in.
I don't want to give you the impression it was all butterflies and rainbows, because it wasn't! This kid had been practicing his fuckery for a long time, and he was damn good at it. He was hard to like, and teachers often complained to me about him. I didn't have a magic bullet, but I did learn that loving kids who are the hardest is the only thing that works, and it is the god damned hardest thing to do. I had to dig deep on some days, when he would just push, and push, and push his terrible at me. With his swearing and meanness and cruel comments spewed at me. Many days I just felt weary and depleted.
And just like when he began staying in class, he then began actively participating. This kid read out-loud for the first time. He completed independent work! He joked with the other adults. He got silly with his peers. We helped him peel away his layers of practiced avoidance and watched him begin trusting. He relaxed into being a teenager who was accepted. And while my classroom is only a pebble of space in his world, he was safe there. He was accepted. He was loved and cared for.
And last week, I got to watch him walk across that graduation stage. I saw him hold up his diploma, beaming with pride as he looked up at his parents in the audience.
And with that, this school year comes to a close. Love is the only thing that works every time.
Sunday, January 21, 2018
Single Reflections
Fellow Human, I know what you are going to say. This time, please don't.
Being single sucks! And while I know all you partnered humans are going to tell me that partnership also has its points of sucking - I assure you, it is different.
Most days I can carry on with my life just fine. It is in the finer details of life that I get filled with sadness and frustration with a lack of a partner. And I mean, a partner in the non-intimate sense - I'll get to that later.
I have been really, really sick this last week, and when that happens, I become acutely aware of how single I am. Shall I paint you a picture, fellow human?
Picture a fever of 102, you can only think 1 thought at a time, you can barely make it into the bathroom, and on the way, you stumble into the wall, holding on and praying you don't fall and pass out. You wonder if you will make it back into bed. Of course, there's no one around to check on you. That thought alone fills you with anxiety. But, thankfully, you make it back into bed, and pass out from the exhaustion of just going to the bathroom. Well meaning, and very dear friends, text you, wishing you wellness and healing. One or two ask if I need anything, but pride always wins the day with "no, I'm fine, thank you." Besides, I would only barely make it to the door, and I certainly can't entertain guests, and I truly do not wish this illness on anyone.
I wake up a day or so later with excruciating pain in my ear. I have to go a doctor, and I am wondering how?! I argue with the receptionist, they are insisting I stay home, which I understand is protocol for the flu, but this is now a flu complication- ear infection, that I will need antibiotics for. I resign myself to going to urgent care. Keep in mind, dear reader, that I still am in fever land, and am still alone. But I have to take myself to the doctor, and likely to a pharmacy.
Long story short, I deliriously drive myself to the doctor and then to the pharmacy. The pharmacist asked "did you drive yourself? Do you live close by?" Clearly, I should not be out driving. I looked in the mirror - I was grey.
So, besides the obvious - when you are single and sick, you're on your own. Those finer details I mentioned? You've had a long day, week, month, year, and it would be really great if someone else got dinner started and made. Or, could someone else please take the trash to the curb tonight? No? OK, well, I'll get it next week, I'm just too tired. Can't someone else go to the grocery store? Sure would be nice if someone else were here to help pay all these bills and the rent.
And those intimate parts? Having someone to talk to at the end of the day? Having another human touch you, you getting to touch another human being? Yeah, I don't have that. You partnered people need to not take these things for granted. I am touch starved. Aching to connect mentally and physically to another human being. You have no idea how this feels. The loneliness of singlehood is painful. It aches deep inside my bones. The longing is unending.
But I can't stay too long in that place of longing, so I push it aside, and go on with the day to day. Though, it seeps itself into my waking thoughts more often than I'd like. But alas, what choice do I have? Carry on.
Being single sucks! And while I know all you partnered humans are going to tell me that partnership also has its points of sucking - I assure you, it is different.
Most days I can carry on with my life just fine. It is in the finer details of life that I get filled with sadness and frustration with a lack of a partner. And I mean, a partner in the non-intimate sense - I'll get to that later.
I have been really, really sick this last week, and when that happens, I become acutely aware of how single I am. Shall I paint you a picture, fellow human?
Picture a fever of 102, you can only think 1 thought at a time, you can barely make it into the bathroom, and on the way, you stumble into the wall, holding on and praying you don't fall and pass out. You wonder if you will make it back into bed. Of course, there's no one around to check on you. That thought alone fills you with anxiety. But, thankfully, you make it back into bed, and pass out from the exhaustion of just going to the bathroom. Well meaning, and very dear friends, text you, wishing you wellness and healing. One or two ask if I need anything, but pride always wins the day with "no, I'm fine, thank you." Besides, I would only barely make it to the door, and I certainly can't entertain guests, and I truly do not wish this illness on anyone.
I wake up a day or so later with excruciating pain in my ear. I have to go a doctor, and I am wondering how?! I argue with the receptionist, they are insisting I stay home, which I understand is protocol for the flu, but this is now a flu complication- ear infection, that I will need antibiotics for. I resign myself to going to urgent care. Keep in mind, dear reader, that I still am in fever land, and am still alone. But I have to take myself to the doctor, and likely to a pharmacy.
Long story short, I deliriously drive myself to the doctor and then to the pharmacy. The pharmacist asked "did you drive yourself? Do you live close by?" Clearly, I should not be out driving. I looked in the mirror - I was grey.
So, besides the obvious - when you are single and sick, you're on your own. Those finer details I mentioned? You've had a long day, week, month, year, and it would be really great if someone else got dinner started and made. Or, could someone else please take the trash to the curb tonight? No? OK, well, I'll get it next week, I'm just too tired. Can't someone else go to the grocery store? Sure would be nice if someone else were here to help pay all these bills and the rent.
And those intimate parts? Having someone to talk to at the end of the day? Having another human touch you, you getting to touch another human being? Yeah, I don't have that. You partnered people need to not take these things for granted. I am touch starved. Aching to connect mentally and physically to another human being. You have no idea how this feels. The loneliness of singlehood is painful. It aches deep inside my bones. The longing is unending.
But I can't stay too long in that place of longing, so I push it aside, and go on with the day to day. Though, it seeps itself into my waking thoughts more often than I'd like. But alas, what choice do I have? Carry on.
Tuesday, November 21, 2017
Men Taught Me to Fear Them
So many stories. So many accusations. My head gets foggy. I shake it, trying to keep myself in the "here and now".
I recently read a post by a woman explaining how she developed a fear of men. If I can find it, I will link it. I have been thinking about it for days now, and I need to write in order to get out my spinning thoughts.
I didn't choose to fear men, men taught me.
In 5th grade, a boy from another class grabbed my ass. I got shy and didn't respond. He did this every time he saw me. He was older than me, and I was scared. Men do what they want.
As a 15 year old, walking to the grocery store, the catcalls from groups of men in cars. Some would pull over a block or so ahead. I would continue walking as they shouted from the car "hey, babe! Where are you going? Let us give you a ride!" I ignored them. "Hey! We're talking to you!" They revved the engine as I walked by, which startled me. "Come on, slut, get in the car!" I kept walking, and eventually they left. As an adult woman, that situation should have scared me far more than it did, but it was the first of many. Men are persistent.
In math class as a freshman in high-school, I heard a boy say "Hey! Watch this!" I paid no attention until he was next to me, and shoved his hand up my skirt and under my panties. He laughed. I heard the others laughing. I sat mortified and shocked. Men want what's under your skirt.
A year or so later, my high-school sweetheart, some friends, and I were off at a church retreat. We were "good kids", so they let us bunk in the same room - my friend (girl), my boyfriend, and I. In the middle of the night, my boyfriend got into bed with me. It was totally innocent at first. We just snuggled and kissed, as teens do. Then he got on top of me. This was my first experience with this. Fear made me frozen - I couldn't make a sound. I managed a whimpered "stop! She'll hear you!" He put his hands under my clothes and grabbed at me. I remember feeling his arms slip through my hands, and for the first time I realized that men are stronger than me. I tried to get out from under him. He was trying to kiss me, and I was squirming away. When I managed to get out from under him, I ran down the hallway to an empty room, he chased after me. Thankfully, the room had a locking door. This was my first panic attack. I remember sitting in a corner of the room, feeling extremely small with the walls huge around me. He kept knocking on the door. Hours went by. When I finally had the courage to open the door that had fallen silent, he was laying outside of the room. Waiting. But, he had fallen asleep. I was able to get to a phone to call my mom to pick me up. Men are stronger than me and they don't listen.
Through the high-school hallways, a boy would come up to talk to me at my locker. When we finished talking, he pressed his finger into my breast, hard, and walked away. I was speechless and confused. Did that really just happen? It happened several other times. My breasts are not mine, they are for men.
I had a date with a very handsome man. We went to his place to sip wine and do what adults do. The classic, one thing led to another... He wanted to try the "other way". I agreed. Though had never done it. I screamed! He shouted at me to "SHH! My roommates will hear you!". I couldn't stand the pain, so I wiggled out from under him. He turned on the light. "What the fuck?!" he said, "you got blood all over my sheets!" Men hurt me and are mean.
I was dating a man for a couple months and he stayed over sometimes. This particular night, while doing what adults do, he suddenly flipped me over so I was on my belly. He jammed his penis into my anus. And I remember seeing white with pain. I screamed a blood curdling sound that I didn't know I was capable of, and he forced my head into the pillow "shut the fuck up!" he yelled over and over again. I was screaming and trying to reach behind me to get him off. I began to feel I couldn't breathe from the intense pain. A strange sensation took over. I remember feeling my body go limp and I floated up to the top of the room. I could feel the pulsing of him thrusting into me, but I was no longer connected to the massive pain of my experience. He finished and rolled off of my body. I got up, put my nighty back on, and went downstairs and sat on the couch in a haunted daze. He yelled at me "get back here!" I silently walked back. He said "you are being rude, just leaving me like that. Get back into bed." I was so afraid that he would do it again, so I obliged, but not before he said "Take the nighty off, I told you, you need to sleep naked when you're next to me." Men are terrifying.
Men taught me to fear them.
I recently read a post by a woman explaining how she developed a fear of men. If I can find it, I will link it. I have been thinking about it for days now, and I need to write in order to get out my spinning thoughts.
I didn't choose to fear men, men taught me.
In 5th grade, a boy from another class grabbed my ass. I got shy and didn't respond. He did this every time he saw me. He was older than me, and I was scared. Men do what they want.
As a 15 year old, walking to the grocery store, the catcalls from groups of men in cars. Some would pull over a block or so ahead. I would continue walking as they shouted from the car "hey, babe! Where are you going? Let us give you a ride!" I ignored them. "Hey! We're talking to you!" They revved the engine as I walked by, which startled me. "Come on, slut, get in the car!" I kept walking, and eventually they left. As an adult woman, that situation should have scared me far more than it did, but it was the first of many. Men are persistent.
In math class as a freshman in high-school, I heard a boy say "Hey! Watch this!" I paid no attention until he was next to me, and shoved his hand up my skirt and under my panties. He laughed. I heard the others laughing. I sat mortified and shocked. Men want what's under your skirt.
A year or so later, my high-school sweetheart, some friends, and I were off at a church retreat. We were "good kids", so they let us bunk in the same room - my friend (girl), my boyfriend, and I. In the middle of the night, my boyfriend got into bed with me. It was totally innocent at first. We just snuggled and kissed, as teens do. Then he got on top of me. This was my first experience with this. Fear made me frozen - I couldn't make a sound. I managed a whimpered "stop! She'll hear you!" He put his hands under my clothes and grabbed at me. I remember feeling his arms slip through my hands, and for the first time I realized that men are stronger than me. I tried to get out from under him. He was trying to kiss me, and I was squirming away. When I managed to get out from under him, I ran down the hallway to an empty room, he chased after me. Thankfully, the room had a locking door. This was my first panic attack. I remember sitting in a corner of the room, feeling extremely small with the walls huge around me. He kept knocking on the door. Hours went by. When I finally had the courage to open the door that had fallen silent, he was laying outside of the room. Waiting. But, he had fallen asleep. I was able to get to a phone to call my mom to pick me up. Men are stronger than me and they don't listen.
Through the high-school hallways, a boy would come up to talk to me at my locker. When we finished talking, he pressed his finger into my breast, hard, and walked away. I was speechless and confused. Did that really just happen? It happened several other times. My breasts are not mine, they are for men.
I had a date with a very handsome man. We went to his place to sip wine and do what adults do. The classic, one thing led to another... He wanted to try the "other way". I agreed. Though had never done it. I screamed! He shouted at me to "SHH! My roommates will hear you!". I couldn't stand the pain, so I wiggled out from under him. He turned on the light. "What the fuck?!" he said, "you got blood all over my sheets!" Men hurt me and are mean.
I was dating a man for a couple months and he stayed over sometimes. This particular night, while doing what adults do, he suddenly flipped me over so I was on my belly. He jammed his penis into my anus. And I remember seeing white with pain. I screamed a blood curdling sound that I didn't know I was capable of, and he forced my head into the pillow "shut the fuck up!" he yelled over and over again. I was screaming and trying to reach behind me to get him off. I began to feel I couldn't breathe from the intense pain. A strange sensation took over. I remember feeling my body go limp and I floated up to the top of the room. I could feel the pulsing of him thrusting into me, but I was no longer connected to the massive pain of my experience. He finished and rolled off of my body. I got up, put my nighty back on, and went downstairs and sat on the couch in a haunted daze. He yelled at me "get back here!" I silently walked back. He said "you are being rude, just leaving me like that. Get back into bed." I was so afraid that he would do it again, so I obliged, but not before he said "Take the nighty off, I told you, you need to sleep naked when you're next to me." Men are terrifying.
Men taught me to fear them.
Sunday, August 27, 2017
A quick trip to the Gorge
Earth's breath tickles the rivers surface
Columbia giggles
Swiftly flowing to freedom
The vast carvings look down upon me
I gaze, in awe and wonder at the sight
Wonder what stories the rocks could tell
Mother lets out a sigh
my cheeks enjoy her cool kiss
I fall in love every time.
Columbia giggles
Swiftly flowing to freedom
The vast carvings look down upon me
I gaze, in awe and wonder at the sight
Wonder what stories the rocks could tell
Mother lets out a sigh
my cheeks enjoy her cool kiss
I fall in love every time.
Saturday, November 19, 2016
Heart Space - Changes
Anyone who knows me well, knows I operate in my heart-space almost constantly. This has many benefits. I always can get in touch with my feelings. I can effectively express my emotions. I can easily empathize with others. I am deeply compassionate. I sometimes describe things as, "feeling it in my bones". This is both a blessing and a curse.
The less beneficial things associated with living in a heart-space, is that I am very easily weighed down by the less happy emotions. I can feel my body move slowly as I process pain, loss, and sadness. I can feel my blood rushing through my veins when I am angry. I become paralyzed in my head when confused - waiting for the heart to give me the message.
Many people do not operate in this space. They think it is a weaker space to be in. It isn't "logical". It isn't "reasonable". Or they flutter in and out of this space, for it isn't always comfortable. To feel is to be in touch with, for lack of a better term, spirit. And spirit is confusing. It isn't something you can see or touch. Is is a sense of self that is ambiguous. I don't believe people like being there. People like concrete. People like directions and order. And those things are wonderful, and people like that are necessary. I am not those people. I am a heart person.
I have been criticized for moving to Hawaii. I am sure I will be criticized for what I am about to reveal. But those that are devils advocates, critics, nay-sayers, or I-told-you-so's, do not live in this heart space with me. And that is OK. All that I ask, is that you keep it to yourself. Trust and know, that I am my biggest critic and I am already aware of the seemingly foolishness of my heart. But my heart, I trust, and my heart will guide me.
I will be returning to Portland. This was far from an easy decision. The reasons are various, do not dare think to assume you know all the reasons why. I assure you, that you do not. Many and most are personal reasons that I do not wish to reveal to the masses. If you do know me well you likely know reasons, but if you do not, please, be conscious of your questions. Maybe I will reveal reasons slowly, and probably after a glass or two of wine. For now, I simply ask for your friendship and support.
Hawaii has been truly an adventure. I have learned many lessons about myself, both personally and professionally. I am incredibly brave. I continue to deal with the depths of depression and anxiety, and through that, moved to the middle of the ocean on top of a volcano that spews lava 24 hours a day. That is crazy. I left all that I love and adore, to try something new and different. Some may say "it didn't work out." I am choosing to believe it worked out exactly as it was supposed to.
So my little aching heart continues to wonder what the next adventure will be. For now, I am grateful to be planning my return to Portland. I cannot wait to hold my family and friends, and to breathe in their familiarity. To be seen by the people who know me well.
Try not to be too critical of me. Believe me, I have enough of an inner critic for everyone.
The less beneficial things associated with living in a heart-space, is that I am very easily weighed down by the less happy emotions. I can feel my body move slowly as I process pain, loss, and sadness. I can feel my blood rushing through my veins when I am angry. I become paralyzed in my head when confused - waiting for the heart to give me the message.
Many people do not operate in this space. They think it is a weaker space to be in. It isn't "logical". It isn't "reasonable". Or they flutter in and out of this space, for it isn't always comfortable. To feel is to be in touch with, for lack of a better term, spirit. And spirit is confusing. It isn't something you can see or touch. Is is a sense of self that is ambiguous. I don't believe people like being there. People like concrete. People like directions and order. And those things are wonderful, and people like that are necessary. I am not those people. I am a heart person.
I have been criticized for moving to Hawaii. I am sure I will be criticized for what I am about to reveal. But those that are devils advocates, critics, nay-sayers, or I-told-you-so's, do not live in this heart space with me. And that is OK. All that I ask, is that you keep it to yourself. Trust and know, that I am my biggest critic and I am already aware of the seemingly foolishness of my heart. But my heart, I trust, and my heart will guide me.
I will be returning to Portland. This was far from an easy decision. The reasons are various, do not dare think to assume you know all the reasons why. I assure you, that you do not. Many and most are personal reasons that I do not wish to reveal to the masses. If you do know me well you likely know reasons, but if you do not, please, be conscious of your questions. Maybe I will reveal reasons slowly, and probably after a glass or two of wine. For now, I simply ask for your friendship and support.
Hawaii has been truly an adventure. I have learned many lessons about myself, both personally and professionally. I am incredibly brave. I continue to deal with the depths of depression and anxiety, and through that, moved to the middle of the ocean on top of a volcano that spews lava 24 hours a day. That is crazy. I left all that I love and adore, to try something new and different. Some may say "it didn't work out." I am choosing to believe it worked out exactly as it was supposed to.
So my little aching heart continues to wonder what the next adventure will be. For now, I am grateful to be planning my return to Portland. I cannot wait to hold my family and friends, and to breathe in their familiarity. To be seen by the people who know me well.
Try not to be too critical of me. Believe me, I have enough of an inner critic for everyone.
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