Category: self

Why Contemplation Belongs in the Writers’ Toolbox #bloglikecrazy

Alice LundyLeave a comment

“Five hundred a year stands for the power to contemplate… a lock on the door means the power to think for oneself.” ~ Virginia Woolf

Some people are trying to raise children. I’m trying to raise a writer.

I’m trying to raise my writer self, and in doing so, I’ve had to discover what works for her.

Like a neglected child, she often has to be sweet talked after so many times of being set aside.

After dreaming so many dreams of becoming a writer and waking up to find myself a server, salesperson or teacher, my writer self sometimes sneers and says, Oh, please with that, like you’re ever…

My writer self is a wild, unruly child, but when in solitude, she dances, sings, gives speeches, and writes books.

However, when she hears a key in the door, a television, or God forbid, someone asks, “What are you up to?” she freezes.

It’s not fear so much as shifting gears from action demanding my whole being into interactions with another, even if it’s just being alert to their presence or saying hello.

Politeness demands turning from introspection into simple conversation.

Sometimes it’s the subtleties of life that let me settle for not writing, while a small shift can send me into an afternoon dancing with words.

Our writer selves require solitude, a space of our own, and time unleashed.

This is where pondering presents epiphanies, and profound ways of seeing or expressing ourselves.

It sounds simple. Go to your room, a coffee shop, or a park. Ta-da! Here’s your time! Sure, but it’s not just physical space we seek. We must find the mental space away from the chaos of daily life and to-do lists.

Amid the noise, without an agent, deadline, or outside demand, the small voices shout—to return my father’s phone call, check my email, do the laundry, or more often, put away the pile of laundry I did last week.

We need a lock on the door of our writers’ minds—the passageway into the world of words that refuse to dance in the company of commotion.

Sometimes, we wait for words. What if words await us on the other side of that door, pages preparing themselves to be written, if we can just lock out life’s little inconveniences?

Five hundred a year, some relative sum from Virginia Woolf’s time, purchases physical security—money pays the rent, feeds the dog, and keeps the lights on—and mental opportunity—the permission slip that says: Writing, you may now step to the front of the line.

When writing is relegated to farther back than our souls intend, it gets impatient, even petulant, watching us rush about.

Writing grabs furiously for our attention, the way an ignored child would, staring us down as we dart away to teach yoga, be present for margaritas with the girls, or make the meet-up group for writers.

What about me? writing cries.

She whines in the background while we resists with lists: I’ve got to order tires for my car. What are we doing for Thanksgiving dinner? Do I need to shop? Oh God, is Christmas really coming again this year? Sh*t! I forgot to call my dad. Oh, and those clothes!

Investing in contemplation ignites and expands our writing into ideas and words that flow, rather than feeling forced.

Time to mentally wrestle is the gift many of us deny ourselves in the same way we deny other luxuries.

How is it we feed ourselves junk media and divorce ourselves from nourishing contemplation?

We don’t have time. Yeah, like we don’t have time to work out.

Contemplation feeds a writer’s soul like mama’s cooking feeds the body.

The writing self, at least mine, needs nurturing.

She craves my attention and direction. She wants to be told it’s ok to play.

Contemplation is play, but that doesn’t get much credit in our society.

Contemplation isn’t something you pursue, win, or earn recognition for. It’s not like a degree, a man or a promotion. Thought is its own reward.

Contemplation catapults our writer selves into their own private rooms filled with writer toys: pens, paper, keyboards, words, and quiet.

Shhh, lock the door. Don’t tell anyone we’re in here. Let’s create something beautiful.

 

Why I Keep Telling that Story. #bloglikecrazy

Alice LundyLeave a comment

If the people we love are stolen from us, the way to have them live on is to never stop loving them. ~ James O’Barr

It’s the best story I know. So, yeah, I keep telling it.

We were Fire & Ice and all the metaphors that arise from that.

I’m still in love with Kevin (Fire). It’s not going to stop, ever.

My relationship with a man who no longer breathes serves as my example of what a man looks like when he steps up with emotional courage and as a way of life, whether or not others mirror his feelings.

I have no idea what tomorrow will bring.

I only guarantee I still say yes, I’d choose him. Why concern myself with something that’s not an option?

Because I want to make the best choice I ever made again, even though he’s dead.

Given the choice, I’d choose the man who chose me and erased the pain of all the times I wasn’t chosen, the man who said the words no man ever did when it came to my deepest heartaches.

I’d choose the man who knew me before I was raped, knew my rapist, and saw me rise out of the ashes.

I’d choose the man who competed with me in my selling days, and said to me, “You’re the only woman who actually cares about how my day goes out there. All my other girlfriends just wanted to know if I made money.”

We both knew how hard the sales field could be on a soul. And he knew the challenge of getting my book published.

Kevin believed in my book, my writing, and my dream of success—in such an unselfish-call-me-on-my-sh*t and remind me to go for it way.

I’d choose the guy who said this after reading my book: “This is something I’d buy at Barnes & Noble.”

He’s the guy who taught me to love my imperfections, like the scar on my lip and my tendency to be jealous—because he loved all of me.

He held my judgements up to the light without resentment or attachment.

He revealed his anger, disagreements, stories of drug days and not-always-gentlemanly ways with not one apology for who he chose to be.

I’m always going to want Kevin and the time when we embodied Fire & Ice.

I’m going to keep alive, nurture and defend the connection I have with him still, because it’s worth celebrating.

The memory of Kevin’s love is part of my story of who I am and how I became me.

It’s as much of my story as my first book. Kevin read that because he asked.

He asked to read everything I wrote. I handed him pages stained with my soul. He used them to start a Fire in me. It was more than a romantic relationship we had.

Fire and Ice—a man and a woman transcended together. So, yeah, I’m going to keep telling that story. It’s the best one I know.

But, that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop turning the pages of my life.

How to Deal With Our Loved One’s Not Here-ness #bloglikecrazy

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“Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it.” ~ Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

I recently read of a widow writing about her husband’s “not here-ness.” Yes, that’s it. When you lose your person, their not here-ness is everywhere.

My stepmom said she’ll get a backhoe to clean out my dad’s stuff if he dies first.

My sister and I, who’ve both lost our favorite person, agreed with my stepmom the way a parent agrees with a child when they tell you what they’re going to do when they grow up. “Maybe,” we both said.

My sister spent years voicing her lack of enthusiasm for her husband’s accumulation of things—stuffed animals, cars, model cars. I always thought she was the backhoe bulldoze type gal. I think she did, too. Until he died.

There’s no way of knowing how you’ll feel when your favorite person dies. Even if you’ve lost loved ones before. Each loss is as different as each relationship.

We think we know because we’ve played grief’s game before or because we’ve stood witness to other widows.

Just as a person who hasn’t owned a dog, been pregnant, raised kids, been married, or attended college cannot fully know until they go through the metamorphosis life invites and throws us into, one cannot know if she’ll find herself territorial over one striped chipped coffee cup that used to belong to her beloved.

You learn love by loving. You learn loss by losing. Over and over.

In Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, Anna’s husband Alexey Alexandrovitch “experienced a feeling akin to a man on a bridge who should suddenly discover that bridge is broken, and that there is a chasm below.”

Yes, that’s endings: divorce, break-ups, death. With death, especially sudden death, the bridge is on fire, burned irrevocably.

Yet, our desire to cross isn’t extinguished. In fact, our ache to walk with our special person intensifies, with them on the other side of the chasm.

My beloved tells me he’s just in another room. I feel like it’s true, as true as my wanting him to get out of that room and come into mine, or to join him.

I’m fortunate to have continued communication with my beloved in the beyond. I’m grateful. And yet, I don’t have his arms.

It’s not a matter of believing. It’s too real—and specifically Kevin, a one of a kind character, with an unmatched vocabulary and way of speaking—to not believe.

It’s just that I was in the middle of life’s summer. A confidence had settled in my soul, the kind born of sacred love, from being the match for his Fire.

It was easy to let go and love him and welcome him to love me.

But, to release my beloved into the hands of death? I’m not thrilled about it—still.

He’s gone. And he’s here.

The question is will I keep knocking on the door to the other room, the one I’m not yet invited to enter, or will I accept he’s gone and relish his new presence?

Can I welcome a transition of our relationship—again?

Accepting physical death (regardless of one’s spiritual beliefs and the sacred occurrences) is much like forgiving betrayal.

It takes a while.

How to Embrace Opportunity for Metamorphosis. #bloglikecrazy

Alice LundyLeave a comment

“Birds sing after a storm; why shouldn’t people feel as free to delight in whatever remains to them?” ~ Rose Kennedy

My friend is lucky.
Her love lives.
She has a wife and a kid.

She’s unlucky.
As writers, we declared
Long ago: j-o-b-s distract.
She’s dedicated to a distraction.

Committed by way of marriage
And her ego’s need for independence
Managing the only 24 hours given each day.

I’m lucky, granted—by grace and my sister’s magic—
Freedom to pursue my passion daily.
The gift every writer dreams of: time
To work on our calling, the way others work
On their professions. Writing defines everything.
Writing rights us. We know no other way.
We’ll squeeze the whole world out to fit our
Writing in, but we don’t want to do it that way.

I don’t have to. I’m lucky.
Certainly luckier than most.
Of course, unluckier than many.
Losing everything, and my beloved dying.

I live my grandfather’s legacy:
I’ve had a lot of loss, but
I’ve had a lot of love.

Both unlucky and lucky,
Like my friend, all my
Friends, family and strangers.

Love, freedom, time and money.
Health, opportunities and obligations.
Coping, managing and manifesting.

Luck. We can’t hold it. It’s a
Hot potato. Good and bad luck.
We juggle them both, knowing:

For all the good, there’s a price.
I willingly pay.
And the bad?
Opportunity for metamorphosis.
I play my part.

I change. I grow.

We’re all lucky. And unlucky. Then, lucky again.

Sometimes life swings full
Circle and you realize
How lucky you are.
How lucky you are!

How to Be a Successful Rebel. #bloglikecrazy

Alice Lundy2 Comments

What’s reflective and adaptive in the short run may carry the highest price tag over time. ~ Harriet Goldhor Lerner, PhD

Dear Young Rebel, I see you.

I see you with my old woman eyes. I know the lies you tell because I was once young and told them, too.

I was old enough to do what I wanted and fool the fools.

I didn’t realize the one I was ripping off was me.

I skipped much of high school or found myself sick with the flu, and even though it was true, I missed out on a slice of life I can never get back.

I barely graduated high school, not because I was dumb, but because I thought I was too smart to play by the rules.

Kids who went to class, did homework, or listened to their parents’ advice seemed weak.

Not me, I was strong.

I do what I want! was my motto.

The truth is I was lost and scared. I didn’t know what I wanted or who I was.

I was (and still am) a rebel.

When we’re young, it seems everyone is running the same race. As the years pass, the trajectory of actions and consequences spreads wider.

It’s revealed in careers, homes, travel, marriages, and a myriad of things that require time and attention.

Maybe you’re so smart you won’t listen to me or let this be anything other than some dumb adult thinking she can tell you anything when you’re an adult yourself and you already know, right?

The only reason I’m saying anything is because I wish somebody would’ve pulled me aside, realized I was just trying to make my way, and helped me make better choices. Nobody did.

Or, at least I didn’t hear them, like you might not hear this. And, that’s ok.

And yet, when I look back, I wish someone would’ve said: You can do this.

See, I thought everyone was saying I had to and that alone made me not want to. I thought the hard work and school stuff was for them.

I doubted anyone’s sincerity that anything good was meant for me. Nobody understood what I was going through. Or, so I thought.

I’m not telling you I totally get you. I’m saying I care and you can do this.

You can stop fighting against what could benefit you.

You deserve a good life.

But no, you spoiled little brat, it won’t be handed to you.

Ooh, right there, I bet that pissed you off. Now, do you want to be all self-righteous, like Who the hell does she think she is?

Here’s who I am: a grown woman who was once a spoiled brat.

Now, I’m old enough to admit it. I admit it wasn’t the world or my father who were so hard on me; I made things hard by trying to get away with doing things the easy way.

This is not a condemnation of you. It’s the concern I wish somebody would’ve shown me.
I see you. Can you see yourself?

Can you see what I couldn’t when I was your age, but is so clear now?

Can you look at how you’re living and imagine the kind of life you might be creating?

I know how smart you are and what a rebel you can be. It’s awesome!

However, combine that with misused freedom and you might just run yourself off a cliff.
Can you see how you could be hurting yourself? You know when you move out of your parents’ house, they won’t go with you, but you will?

Your thoughts and ideas. Your money habits. Your work habits. Your ways of getting along with others (or not). It all moves with you.

You create it. Then, you own it. It’s your life.

I’m asking: Do you like the one you’re crafting?

Well, I’m not really asking because I see you and I know.

I see you avoiding life and responsibility because it seems so hard.

It’s difficult to imagine, but it’s actually easier to go to class, do the work, study for the test, and go to the job than it is to avoid and fib (especially to yourself).

Gosh, if I could give you that one truth and you believed it, it would be a springboard in your life. It could save you years.

But, maybe you’re like me; you’ve got years to waste.

If so, keep at it. You’re on track.

If you want to follow in my footsteps, please, at all costs, refuse to invest yourself in anything that will actually matter 5-10 years from now.

That’s how I didn’t truly become a student until I was 37 years old, when the pain of not having a degree caught up to me—financially, sure, but more the screaming in my soul.

See, I only had excuses while other people lived with real reasons for not finishing school. They couldn’t afford it, were working two jobs, got pregnant, or just weren’t smart like us.

Actually, back then, I thought I was dumb. Nope. I just didn’t go to class.

I later learned: attendance changes everything.

I didn’t know that then, like you don’t now.

Like you, my parents paid for almost everything in the early days and I blew it all. I blew the money and I trashed the time.

Of course, you won’t blow it like I did. Yeah, that’s what I said.

For three years, I played at college, majored in partying, skipping classes and collecting my dad’s checks as if he owed me and I was getting back at him for his lack of achieving my standards of the kind of father he should be.

I missed the examples around me of people my age building successes, despite having harsher disadvantages and fewer opportunities.

I spent money on pizzas, margaritas and good times. I threw money around like confetti while wiser students juggled jobs, attended classes, clubs and sporting events, and still made time for fun.

I fumbled everything. Don’t be me.

I know, you say you won’t (because you’re smart). That’s what I said—when I dropped out of college “for a semester” three years in.

I chose the easy route and it was anything but easy later on.

I couldn’t see how fast the years would stack up.

I see you, young rebel, calling yourself an adult while doing childish things.

I hear you saying you’re smart, but acting otherwise.

I see you dancing and crafting manipulations, but more importantly, I see you miscalculating the consequences you’re setting yourself up for.

It’s not trouble from your father you should worry about. I know, like me, that doesn’t worry you at all.

The worst kind of trouble is that of your soul when you let the gifts and opportunities you’ve been given slide.

All the blame in the world won’t make your life belong to someone else.

Our souls know the truth even if it takes decades to catch up.

I traded too many years for cheap thrills while other gals and guys gathered degrees and built lives of purpose.

I told myself I didn’t care. I told myself it was just a piece of paper.

Occasionally, I even chanted the victim’s cry, “It’s not fair!”

No, it wasn’t fair that I didn’t show up for class or work or life and expected the same rewards as those who did.

See, life is fair in its unfairness and sometimes the things we get away with today we pay for in the long run.

It wasn’t my father’s actions or attitude which shaped my life. It was my mine.

As time passes, the stories that matter most are the ones we tell ourselves.

When we hold back, we’re paving a path we might not like walking later.

In our teens and 20s, it’s ok to have little money or work retail and restaurant jobs. But trust me; it’s not a thrill in your 30s.

Choosing jobs like that is fine. However, some folks just get lost, and then get stuck.

I see you, young rebel and I hope you don’t get stuck.

I hope you’re not like the guy who says he won’t run out of gas, even though the gage says empty and the light flashes. He keeps driving until what he denies becomes reality.

I was that guy. Well, that young girl playing at life and pushing the limits for the sake of proving something, maybe that no one could control me.

The thing is I didn’t control myself. I didn’t take responsibility. I didn’t go to class. I didn’t plan, study, and prepare for a better life.

I wasted money because I could. I wasted years of my life.

Somehow, I thought I’d be missing out if I did the responsible things and I was too cool for rules and damn if I’d let anyone tell me what to do.

When I look back, I wish I could grab my young hand the first time I didn’t go to class and went to a movie in the middle of the afternoon with a friend and no one said a word.

I wish I could make my young eyes see that friend didn’t have a father like mine paying the bills, so she worked that day and every other. The movie was a treat she gave herself for acing a test, not a way of life like the one I was living.

I wish the young rebel I was knew that when I lied and told my boyfriend my math class was cancelled at 8:00 am every Friday, he still went to class, loved me, had fun, and did his homework. So, he earned a degree.

I see her now, the young rebel I was, having fun. She’s a little sad.

I see the woman I am now and I’m happy with my life.

I don’t have regrets, so maybe you won’t either.

You’ll find your way, as I did.

You might find, like I did, the shortcuts aren’t.

Young rebel, I see you. You’ve got this. You’re smart.

In fact, you’re smarter than me, aren’t you?

 

 

It’s My Birthday! Version 5.3. #bloglikecrazy

Alice LundyLeave a comment

“Fly free and happy beyond birthdays and across forever and we’ll meet now and then and when we wish, in the midst of the one celebration that never can end.” ~ Richard Bach 

It’s my birthday. “5.3, Icey!” I hear my deceased boyfriend say.

Yes, I’m 53. It’s a gift, I tell myself—trying to overcome my feelings with my mind.

I’ve already gotten 26 more of these celebrating days than my brother’s 27.

I’m three years shy of my mother’s whole life.

There was a time when their deaths made me dig in and live with fury.

I’m slower now, not old woman slow, but embodying acceptance that I’m not in control, trusting grace and allowing life to reveal itself.

You know, when I’m not comparing to those I marvel at and clinging to the sweet taste of yesterday (my beloved, aka The Fire!).

I’ve never been one to settle, but I find beauty in coming to peace with it all.

I’ve spent too many autumns of my life missing the colors while cursing the bitter winter I knew was coming.

The seasons are predictable, just not their intensity. Saying I want to be complete with my grief is wanting winter to end.

Spring will come, but there are often the surprise cold snaps after we’ve put our winter clothes away.

I’ve walked a thousand miles in grief’s shoes and I’ll walk a thousand more, because once I move into spring regarding the death of my beloved, another death of another loved one will arrive in my life—unless I go first, which I refuse.

So, I vow to live with the knowledge: people die. We know this. Yet, we resist.

Me? I’m going to live, eyes and heart open to all the seasons. I’ll grow old with grace and gratitude.

Today, I’ll sit back and laugh with my ladies. I’ll smile at babies and pet puppies. I’ll count on the sunset and let it caress my eyes. Heck, I might even dance on tables, just to prove I’ve still got my groove.

I’m still here. I breathe the breath of spring and find the delicious in everyday delights.

Life unfolds. Angels hold me, owning this space and time, infusing me with courage and refining my character.

There’s nothing to chase. I stand in this moment and allow memory to befriend me.

I smile with every drop of my flowing blood, picturing my beloved flexing in his bedroom on his final birthday: “5.8, Icey. Pretty good. What do you think—5.8?”

I thought he’d live longer. I thought he was the most handsome version of 5.8 ever created.

I love the way he saw himself and how he helped me see all of me with new eyes.

As my birthday dawns, I celebrate life’s rich hues. It’s been colorful and even when I can’t feel it, I hear him say, “It just keeps getting better.”

I lean into my belief: “5.3, Fire, what you think? Pretty good. It’s me: Icey 5.3.”

How to Say Hello to Your New Shine #bloglikecrazy

Alice Lundy5 Comments

If you’ve immersed yourself into a world that’s not your own and tried to fit into places you don’t belong (because you so want to belong)…

If you find yourself defending yourself, your attitudes and ideas to people who portray themselves as friends (but they’re not)…

If your true self seems a misfit in your daily life…

Realize the value of changing direction.

Begin again. Take a fresh start.

What? You think it’s too late?

What’s the appropriate age to make life changes?

Twenty-eight and you find yourself two decades late?

Well, my dear, what happens if you decide not to give a damn about all the consequences you’ve been so concerned about?

You think you’ll wait and when you meet the maker of this mess called your life, you’ll take her down?

A better idea might be to take her by the hand and say, Baby, I’m sorry we got lost. What would you like to do now?

Listen to her fears because that’s what she’ll tell you first.

She longs to be heard. Nobody’s listening. Listen with your soul.

Let her cry. Wipe her tears. Help her up. Come on, baby, we can do this.

Ask her: what does she want? What makes her dance?

Pull out your magic wand that glitters with gumption and go for it.

Dive into a fresh world. Swim into your desires. Sing off key, even bad.

You’ve got nothing to prove and you’re not on trial.

Turn away from yesterday. Set a route for tomorrow.

Kiss all that doesn’t fit goodbye.

Say hello to a gal shining in the glass in the morning. Let her be you.

How Morgan Corinthos’ Death on General Hospital Helped Heal my Grief. #bloglikecrazy

Alice Lundy1 Comment

Morgan Corinthos—a 20-something, vibrant, got life by the hands, and finally getting his sh*t together, young man—died on my soap opera a year ago.

Before my real-life beloved died over a year and a half ago, I used to sit on his bed, in his bedroom (which felt like our clubhouse for two), and watch General Hospital (GH).

Often, Kevin would be showering or doing paperwork before he headed out on sales calls.

I found comfort in his bed, making a picnic of some random treasure I found in his refrigerator or leftovers from our prior night out.

I felt at home in Kevin’s house, bedroom, bed and space, enjoying one of my favorite guilty pleasures: my GH hour.

Kevin never made me feel guilty or chided me for watching my soap. In fact, he watched a couple of his own. Sometimes, we watched them together.

We even spent a few Saturday mornings in bed with Lifetime TV movies.

Kevin was all man and a sports guy, but he grew up on the soaps his mom watched. He knew the characters’ names and no matter how many years one stops watching, in a couple of shows, you’re caught up like a family reunion.

Now, Kevin’s dead. I’m not in his bedroom. I’m in my home. At 2:00 most weekdays, I turn on GH for a moment and get a rush—of being in his home, in his presence, like he’s still indulging with me.

It was like Kevin cried with me when Morgan Corinthos died on my show.

If he’d died sooner, I couldn’t have taken it, but Morgan’s girlfriend, mom, dad, brothers and sisters are six months behind me on the grief journey.

Morgan’s death on GH reflected my feelings and kept me in tune with how many people around Kevin were shaken by his death.

Morgan’s parents wanted answers. Why did he die? His girlfriend felt guilty for trying to move on. His siblings wanted to assign blame.

Some characters on the show acted unexpected kindness and sincerity. Others fumbled with words.

I related to GH in ways I felt disconnected to my new reality minus my man.
So, I watched more religiously than ever. It was my crying hour.

The show mirrored my emotions, but it couldn’t hurt me the way I was cut when my favorite character was written out of my own life.

Recently, it was the one-year anniversary of Morgan’s death. People of Port Charles (where the show takes place) came together to commemorate.

It matched my recent experience of seeing Kevin’s best friend Garry, with whom I’m forever bonded. He talked about how he was ready to start traveling and imagined he and his wife would take cruises with Kevin and me. But, now we can’t.

I vicariously celebrated Morgan Corinthos—a character on a soap opera, a man in his prime, embracing life and balancing intensity, passion and intimacy, like my Kevin.

I cried for Morgan, his mom, girlfriend, brothers, sisters, and their pain.I shed tears for Kevin, his dad, brothers, and wide array of friends.

I cried when Kevin’s best friend told me he had other friends—good ones—but no one he connected with or could expose himself to the way we did with Kevin. He was a safe place and a grand party for each of us.

Garry said he hadn’t been able to cry. He cried—but hadn’t cried.

I’ve bawled at least a hundred times. I need the cleansing.

I let the triggers hit and the tears flow, even the ones ignited from a story line that wasn’t actually mine. It was close enough. Close to my heart.

Thank you, Morgan Corinthos for playing a part in my healing. His friends and family toasted him on the show: Here’s to Morgan!

Yes, here’s to Morgan Corinthos, and General Hospital, and wherever we find a path to process our pain.

How I Pray for my Friend in the Meantime. #bloglikecrazy

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“Being open to miracles is a discipline and an art.” ~ Marianne Williamson, The Law of Divine Compensation

Dear God,

This is a prayer for my friend. She’s lost her way and is starting to question.

Be her answer. Be her flashlight. Be her map.

Hold her hand through the dark.

Show her the way and reawaken her to what matters.

Let her know you didn’t forget her.

Unclench her clinging hands.

Free her from the burdens of her body and let her return to love—the love she had as a little girl, before she followed the rules and they broke her.

Take her heart to the time before she tried so hard and decided it was never enough, or she wasn’t worthy, before her subconscious kicked her to the curb and encouraged her to settle for less.

Give her a clean slate. Refresh her spirit. Present new opportunities she’s yet to imagine.

Whisper her soul’s song to her again.

Deliver the kind of connections which reflect back the picture of her you keep on your dresser.

Remind my friend what she calls mistakes merely prove her perfectly imperfect humanity and the arrangement she made with you so long ago.

Revive her passion with opportunities offering fulfillment and surprise and make her rise like she came here to do.

Let her feminine come out to dance and play. Brighten the light in her eyes.

Map out all that’s meant to be, and in the meantime, while she waits and hesitates, infuse her with patience.

One day she’ll arrive in that place on her path where she stands in awe and knows it was all worth it, but she’s not there yet.

Please, God and angels, meet her where she is.

Give her your omnipotent kiss.

Thank you.

Amen.

How I Negotiate with Grief. #bloglikecrazy

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“A thousand times she has let go of grief, and it has returned to her a thousand more.” ~ Amy Weiss, Crescendo

I negotiate with grief. In the beginning, it was a heavy weight I committed to carry.

At six months, I thought she’d be lighter, or I’d be stronger. I vowed to keep walking.

First came the end of the calendar year in which my beloved died in March. Grief grounded me.

Surely, at the one year anniversary of his passing, I’d turn the page to something blank and hopeful.

But, grief had already written a pink slip on every day.

Now, it’s two years since the month I spent at his place when we delighted in magic moments and spinning memories I didn’t know I’d rely on to comfort me.

Presently, grief is lighter, like the sunlight on the fall leaves in his front yard, like the crisp morning air when I left his bed and pulled on his KISS robe as I let my dog out.

Grief is bright, like the moon the night we made love on his deck overlooking the river in the country, where I never wanted to live but now miss.

Grief is musical, like the blues he introduced me to and his deep, manly voice.

With time, grief’s become sweet, like the laughter we wrapped in intimacy and his chest holding my head as he stroked my hair.

Grief lingers. She doesn’t leave, although she’s done a little shape-shifting.

I know there will still be heavy days I can hardly stand under her weight.

But, today, I’m strong. I’ve negotiated well.

And grief, she’s beautiful, like his smile when he looked at me.