Flailing Like a Woman

For four years

I flailed in the winds of life

Like a kite

I let grief take me

Twist me

Rip me

While I practiced

Yoga and gratitude

To remain grounded

Held by a string

I prayed to fly higher

Or stand still

To be as beautiful

As a butterfly,

As solid as a dog

But I’m none of these

I am a woman

With feelings and dreams

Living, leaning, loving

Organically

As authentic me

Flawed, but finding my way.

Today, I dance with wonder

Realizing, acknowledging,

Accepting just how much

It takes to recover when

The man you’ve been

Searching for

Your whole life

Dies.

Why I’m Still Dancing.

“Joy comes to us in moments—ordinary moments.” ~ Brene Brown, Daring Greatly

Good morning, thoughts.  Let’s wrestle.

I wrote an article yesterday full of big truths I wanted the world to face, in the face of Coronavirus.

People are dying and more will die.

Somehow, I blamed it on positivity, rose-colored glasses, and some people’s belief in a buffoon of a president.

The piece landed with a thud—making me rethink my purpose and passion for truth, as if there’s one.

Yet, I keep insisting, in writing, and in public: juxtaposition demands maturity.

How about me?

The truth is I’m scared.

Sometimes it’s hard to sit with Fear, harder than Grief—and she’s a bitch.

Grief is yesterday. Fear is tomorrow.

Hope lives today on behalf of tomorrow, despite fear.

Because I believed, affirmed, and read The Secret and Awaken the Giant Within and still landed on my ass, I wanted to disavow all that.

But, last night, while distracting myself from myself with the TV, I caught Garth Brooks being honored with the Gershwin Prize on PBS.

He played “The Dance” and damn, I’m glad I didn’t know the way it all would go.

That’s the truth I’m afraid of. Not knowing.

I didn’t know when I went to St. Louis for a Hall & Oates concert, I was going to fall in love, and for a moment, he would be my king.

I’m glad I didn’t know he’d die in his sleep.

I didn’t know when I came to Ohio to stay with my sis, I’d live with her, love it, and get to pursue my writing dream, for seven years! It’s been the best thing.

Life is juxtaposition. We must decide how we’ll face it.

“You plan and God laughs” doesn’t mean he’s laughing at us. There’s a bigger picture.

Sometimes I’ll go for a party and find sacred love, go for a summer and find a home.

Heck, I couldn’t even know when I opened the curtains this morning, a pink cotton-candy sky would drop into baby blue like a kiss from above, “This is for you.”

Sure, there are facts. Wash your hands!

There are fears. Hello, humanity.

But through it all, I’ve met the crazy, grand mystery.

Good within bad, bad within good, and only because I’ve called them so.

Today, I surrender to the not knowing how it all will go.

But believing in beauty, I’m still dancing.

How My Parents Taught Me to Walk at Age 47.

In 2012, I spent the summer with my parents in their home in Santa Fe, NM.

Most mornings and evenings, they headed out for walks. They had to get their little coyote-looking dog Ginger out, but the walks saved them from life’s daily stresses.

Most times, I was invited. Often, I joined them on the streets winding around adobe homes, dirt paths, and arroyos. I learned “a little walk,” unless it was dark, typically took an hour. So, sometimes I declined in honor of time and solitude.

Often, I heard my stepmom say, “I’m a little tired. I’m going for a walk” or I could see her emotional edge (we all have one) sharpening. Those moments called for solo walks with Ginger.

They both returned brighter and kinder. The desert air, the smell of dirt and pine, and the expansive skies covering the Land of Enchantment can clear the blues. 

Back in junior high, my stepmom introduced me to running by entering a ten-mile race through the Garden of the Gods in Colorado on the day she married my father.

At 14, my skinny legs and thick willpower carried me through the course.

Mary Jo was a runner. So, I became one. Not a jogger. Certainly, not a walker. In my mind, walking was what old people did in malls.

I ran through my teens, 20s and 30, but by my forties, my body wasn’t as forgiving. Yet, my mind couldn’t imagine the power of walking, except for wimps. I’m not a wimp!

Neither are my parents. Now in their 80s, they’re big time drinkers—of water. They’ve travelled the world, and ridden bicycles across the country on serious trips: across the Great Divide, from New Mexico to my dad’s high school reunion in South Dakota, and one summer they rode 4,000 miles from Virginia to Oregon, covering over 50 miles on most days.

So, it shouldn’t have surprised me when, the summer of 2012, my dad met my offer to join him on a bike ride with, “I need to get a real workout in.” Ouch. Hey, old man!

He was right, though. I couldn’t keep up with him mountain biking on the trails, and though I intended to, I never made it up the vertical-as-a-wall killer hill he took like a 12-year-old.

Between bicycle rides, walking served as my parents’ constant. Like water, it’s the simple, almost unnoticeable key to health and longevity.

As Artist’s Way author Julia Cameron states, “You might walk out with a problem, but as you walk, you come into a solution.” She added walking as a third tool for writers, after morning pages and artist dates.

Between Ms. Cameron and my parents, walking became my secret weapon.

Even if walking doesn’t bring me to a solution or resolution, it transforms me. When I’m angry, I must run, but when agitated, irritated, or tired, walking offers revival. It can be medicine, but it’s best taken daily like vitamins.

After that summer in Santa Fe, I returned home to Minnesota, but not to my husband. Yeah, I’d learned to walk in several ways.

Anyhow, in my next chapter, I took up walking with my new neighbor Michael and his German Shepard Jessie. As Michael and I walked among the Victorian homes of Cathedral Hill, St. Paul, we discussed men and women and relationships.

Each step dropped our defenses and forged a friendship I doubt would’ve happened over coffee or meals. Walking made talking easy.

I also walked alone, slowing into the pace of poetry.

Later, when I moved to Worthington, OH with my sister Jayne, our evening walks tamed workday stresses and unraveled the threads of grief, relationships, and childhood memories matched with our adult perspectives.

During winter, my sister and I long for and lean into spring so we can get back to our synchronized steps.

Up until a year ago, my Labrador Phoenix joined us. There’s nothing like a dog to get us out for walks. She’s gone now and it’s more of a chore to drag myself outdoors during the cold days.

Still, every time I go, especially stepping into the woods and letting nature return me to mine, I’m better for it.

On my most recent visit with my parents in their new small Santa Fe apartment, I said, “I need to get out for a walk. Would either of you like to join me?” They both declined the cold. The wind of their aging blew through me.

Of course, we shared many walks that week: down Canyon Road by art galleries, along the downtown arroyo surrounded by glistening yellow Aspen trees, and a drive out close to my folks’ old neighborhood where Ginger could run free as Mary Jo and I plunged up and down hills and through sandy arroyos where she lost her hat and we had to go back.

Walking carries us back and forward, to reflection and perspective of beauty that a drive, or even a bicycle miss.

Ginger is slowing. My parents are growing into what, despite their health, is old age. My companion Phoenix aged out.

I try to pick up the habit of running again, but I’m thankful my parents passed onto me a new constant to carry me through life’s daily joys and challenges.

So, when you’re feeling lost or blue, I encourage you to get out and experience the magnificence, simplicity and magic of walking. 

How I Came to Meet the Devil in my Bed.

“I want to live my life in such a way that when I get out of bed in the morning, the devil says, “aw shit, he’s up!” ~ Steve Maraboli Unapologetically You: Reflections on Life and the Human Experience

I’ve long denied a devil exists. But, can I just call it dark forces, ego, or the lowest part of humanity which lives, even in me?

She woke me up at 3 am to tell me how stupid I am—a useless failure who should just commit suicide—because of all the time I’ve wasted, which, according to the she-devil dancing in my head, is proof I’ll never make it as a writer.

Therefore, I’ll have to go back to retail hell, or at least the sales game. She reminds me I can’t make a living doing what I love: writing, teaching, and yoga.

What about the gals I know succeeding as writers, like Louisa Deasey and Christy Williams? What about the yoga goddesses, Annie and Addie traversing the world and awakening women?

At 3:15 am, she-devil helps me compare myself to women I love in a way that makes me feel smaller.

I’m staying in a friend’s home, crying and ashamed of crying, hiding, trying not to make noise and wishing to shrink under the sheets of shame.

The she-devil is my own self-hatred. Hatred for my own humanity fueled by fear of too much reality outside myself which I can’t stop reading, thinking, and wanting to scream about. I can’t let the devil drag me into fear about our country and society, which seems so obvious to me. (The ship called America isn’t just sinking; She’s on fire!)

That’s too dire to think about at his hour. I want to sleep so I can be a better version of me tomorrow.

I pray to God to help me, angels to surround me, and guides to direct me.

I forgive myself.

I remember what Sarah Entrup said in her Oracle Council. Sarah runs Free the She (not Unleash the She-Devil).

Sarah says uncomfortability is part of being a woman. We keep looking for the one thing to take the longing of our hearts away. No man, no child, job, house, or thing outside of ourselves can do that for us.

Ahh yes, it’s true. We have our moments, even seasons of contentedness, but they tend to be fleeting.

So, what if I made space for the distress? What if I acknowledged the she-devil trying to distract me and bring me down?

I see you, B! You’re the part of me called insecurity, the one who lurks in the background with certainty. The same certainty I held as a toddler and a kindergartener when my mother stared down at me screaming, “Alice Ann, you’re not stupid!” over something I’d done, proving I was the thing she wanted me not to be.

I’m an adult now. I’ve done my work. And still, the she-devil lurks. It’s okay.

It’s part of being human and especially a woman. I’m a woman of faith—the kind that doesn’t fit in a box, the kind who believes in a God bigger than a book written by men.

I believe in LOVE. I love myself. I forgive myself. I bless myself. And I rise.

Well, in this case, I fall asleep, surrendering to dreams and the belief I’m okay, even in the uneasiness.

I no longer deny the devil exists—both as the she-devil who’d derail my divine desires and the he-devil who’d drive our country off a cliff with glee.

I also believe in something bigger: the best of me, my divine internal fire, my sweet soul who loves, even when it’s challenging.

I believe in the light arriving like morning within my heart, mind, society, and the world.

I turn to the light, to the love, in the dark night. I pray to be used for good.

Angels kiss my cheek and I go back to sleep, knowing I’m awakening through the agony and with humanity.

How to Risk Again.

How to Risk Again.

“Like a magnet, you will draw new and exciting events and people because like attracts like.” ~ Chin-Ning Chu, Thick Face Black Heart

If you could get back all you lost and love—

The places where you stand on solid ground, expanded.

Sacred love. Diving into your calling. Living in the spiritual gulf stream.

Divine laughter. Nourishing lovemaking. Enough money not to worry.

Faith to progress forward in the face of hard things.

Energy to persist. A heart willing.

Would you go all in, all over again, if it meant

Risking losing your mind and desire to live,

If you lose, all over again?

Yes, 2020. ALL IN.

 

How Women are Reshaping Society.

“Each of us has a unique part to play in the healing of the world.” ~ Marianne Williamson

Women are taught to be kind. I was taught to be nonjudgmental.

That’s hard. Judgments pop like synapses in my brain. I don’t discriminate and I’m likely hardest on myself.

Still, we’re implored to “Smile!” as if it’s our badge to walk free in society.

Otherwise, we’re called out as bitches, even angry bitches.

Nevertheless, we persist as individual women who often smile instinctively, sometimes don’t mind if you wink at me, but get damn tired of being treated as objects or told we shouldn’t feel as we do.

In the 1970’s Women’s Movement, women stopped smiling, and wearing bras. They traded for emotional armor, determined to succeed in a man’s world.

In the 80’s, as I embarked on my career, my mom and I might as well have worn matching suits and carried matching briefcases.

We cheered in 1992 when Hillary Clinton said, “I suppose I could’ve stayed home and baked cookies and had teas, but what I decided to do was to fulfill my profession which I entered before my husband was in public life.”

My mom and I bantered feminist sayings like tetherballs:

A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle. (popularized by Gloria Steinem)
Anything a man can do a woman can do… better.
Don’t send a boy to do a man’s job; Send a woman.

That wave of feminism paved the way for my professional sales career working among men, proving myself.

Women established our ability to work in a man’s world. But, when you borrow someone else’s pants, even if they’re the right size, they still don’t quite fit.

The way men built foundations, set boundaries (which they may freely bulldoze), and invited us begrudgingly—and sometimes eagerly—serves them and their agenda, even if only through subconscious bias.

We made it in a man’s world. Sure, there’s a glass ceiling and sexual harassment is rampant, but as Donald Trump inferred, harassment in the military is to be expected. His son Trump Jr. clarified that women who can’t handle harassment in the workplace should teach kindergarten.

Trickle-down bullsh*t.

Just as women made comfortable, although not equal, strides in careers and corporations, the guys we believed to be rare and living under rocks revealed themselves in the #MeToo chapter of the Women’s Movement.

“Yeah, I grabbed her by the pus…” Yeah, those guys. The bratty boys with names like Brett who threaten not to let us in the club again.

Guess what? This is a new movement of women.

We’re moving with love, yoga, hot tea, and Kundalini. We’re meeting under full moons and awakening. We’re creating a new world for women, children, and men.

We’re focusing on inclusion, understanding, showing up, and speaking truth—direct, soft, and strong, like a mother who’s had creation born through her.

We wanted in the boys’ clubhouse when we were girls. Then, we grew up and found out what’s in there. It stinks!

We’re building more than clubhouses. Women are creating families, businesses, and communities. We’re shaping societies.

Like the alt-right silently, and sometimes violently, infiltrated our institutions, women are waging a revolution. A revolution of love.

We’re burning sage and taking to the page. We’re purging toxins and cleansing chakras. We speak feminine languages. The witches are back.

We chant with our sisters and our ancestors, who stand with us as we create the new ways—devoid of glass ceilings and golden handcuffs.

Human progress. There’s no going back. Only sitting it out or showing up.

Women are showing up united, ignited, empowered, and determined. We’re here for the future of our children, country, and society.

We might even do a little house cleaning!

How to Welcome Change.

“There’s little more satisfying than the feeling that at last you’ve taken ownership of yourself.” ~ Marianne Williamson

There comes a time.

You set yesterday aside,
Softly.

The thing you held;
Coveted.

Soft addictions cling like
Teddy Bears carried
Into adulthood.

Until you leave them.
Without tears.
Or fanfare.

There comes a time.

You pick up new habits
The way you used to
Lovers in bars.

It’s a new day.
You delight in what’s
Sweet, soulful, and true.

Your radiance.
In the mirror.