How to be Soft like Sunshine, Strong like Storm. #bloglikecrazy

“Hanging around for an endless repetition of the same cycle is not loving, but merely dysfunctional.” ~ Marianne Williamson, Enchanted Love

I’m the kind of woman who’d rather face morning with tears than flatness.

I spent decades defining my emotions as positive or negative. Guess which ones I determined to align with?

When the “bad” ones vied for my attention, I changed my state.

It worked. I presented powerful to the world—and myself.

How can a woman (or a man) be whole if afraid to feel feelings?

I was afraid because in my youth anger awakened uncontrolled rage. (Never mind that I had reason.) Better not do that anymore. Check.

Sadness ignited suicidal tendencies. (Often, when women turn anger inward, it invites suicide; for men, it’s homicide.) Wow. You’re freaking people out. Stop it. I did.

I got my feelings under control. I “mastered” my emotions.

But, those slaves had a propensity to rise up at inconvenient times.

What if I worked with them? What if I befriended my feelings? What—all of them?!

Yes, now I even invite them. I allow them in my life. I listen to what they’re trying to tell me. I give them space and voice.

I find they don’t like to be pushed down, set aside, denied or renamed.

Feelings offer truth, insight, and opportunity for new understanding.

This is the more challenging path, like learning the material rather than just acing the test.

The way medical students studying diseases wonder if they have them, at first, one may worry honoring feelings defines her.

It’s in our language: She’s sad. He’s an angry person.

Enough with that.

I choose to feel my feelings. Is that so radical?

Sometimes, we feel sad or mad or blissed out.

These are our feelings—gifts certainly as valuable as thoughts—which (mine, at least) have been wrong a few thousand times.

I’m coming full circle, in one sense childlike, in the way children skin their knees, cry, and then rise to play again.

But, I’m more. I’m alive with my full feminine essence.

This is my FU you to a patriarchal society that deems it necessary to deny me of my emotions because they scare you. (She’s a hysterical woman!)

This is my hello to my dancing soul.

I was told, and maybe you were, too:
Let it go.
Don’t cry.
Laugh it off.
Be professional.
Don’t be so sensitive.

And, my favorite: “I’ve got it handled,” as in, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head.” Ha! I do not need to be handled!

If you want to care for me, consider me in all my femininity.

Fierce as a blazing fire.
Wild as the wind.
Soft as sunshine.

We reclaim our feminine nature.

Does that scare you? Maybe it should.

Or, maybe you’re so deep in denial, telling yourself the things you’ve been telling us, you refuse to feel fear even in the face of Mother Nature’s wrath.

Do you think femininity is weak?

The jokes, baby, you keep telling them. The lies, honey, you keep believing.

Not me. Not anymore. I’m out.

Out like the feminine force of nature.

You didn’t listen. You tried to shut us down and deny our feelings.

Patriarchal bullsh*t is being blown up. Where will you stand? Choose.

In the hurricane. In the political sh*t storm. In truth like a tornado.

You might just have to frack off because my sisters and I are speaking truth, crying tears, and dancing joy—real joy, not some plastic crap you tried to sell us.

We are the mothers in Mother Nature.

We’re as soft goddesses and as seductive as the sun.

We’re the giggling girls.

We’re the children and the women saying NO. And being heard.

We’re women welcoming our feelings and our experiences.

You won’t always see us smiling to suit you.

We will never line up to salute a lie.

We’re gathering like bees on flowers. We can produce sweet honey or we can sting.

We feel our feelings—full, feminine, fierce, radiant, juicy, messy, ours.

We invite you to join us.

Welcome to everything but denial.

 

 

 

Seduction. #bloglikecrazy

Men, you came to me
Eager, focused, enthusiastic,
Needing, wanting, desiring
Me, your only goal.
I jumped into your arms—willingly.
Then, you turned away
Leaving me baffled,
Bewildered, wondering
Why I succumbed
To charms now denied.
You made me realize
My own power.
You can walk on, men.
You can come back,
Calling on me,
Begging for affection.
It’s not rejection, guys
That I’m aiming your way,
But more an understanding
Of what you are not,
Of all I am & all I can do.
More than beauty,
More than a body,
A soul, a spirit,
Seduction beyond all
You ever offered.
I am a woman,
Full, present, real.
And, thanks to you,
Realistic.
You came to me, but
I have come into my own.

 

Like the Moon

Can you feel it–

Your soul coming

on full

Like the moon?

While it’s never

truly gone,

There have been times

it felt like only a sliver.

But, those were the

nights of yesterday.

The light is arising

from within.

Like a tender

sprout through

the earth.

As unsteady and

beautiful as

a baby deer’s legs.

Soon, she will run.

Like you–full

and elegant.

Catching gazes

once again.

Behind the Mask

I wish to rip off your mask and talk deep with ease.

If you wish to know me, see me. If you wish to see me, look beyond the maintained by the manmade.

If you wish to make your way into my heart, open yours. I’ll look past your label, your name, and my subconscious assumptions I’d rather deny.

Please don’t put me on a pedestal unless your destination is disappointment.

I won’t dismiss you—today, but don’t book your expectations on me. I offer you no promises and tell you I’ve broken plenty in the past.

I promised forever and failed—twice.

I’ve also lived in the moment and given full-on, exercised-in-delight love.

I’ve changed men. Some woke up and others shattered.

With men, I’ve both expanded and become completely undone.

I’m the phoenix. I fly into the fire and come out transformed.

That’s why I leaped off a 50-foot telephone pole and walked across 40-feet of hot burning coals. Metamorphosis is what I do.

It’s my chosen path even when I attempt to avoid it, which I do less and less as I age. I welcome change because it’s coming.

I’d like to invite you with me, but I don’t know how long your destiny is meant to intertwine with mine.

Some main characters of yesterday are no longer on the page.

This isn’t a novel. I’m the author of this true story.

I have a say, but how many actors and factors come into play in a life? Prediction seems preposterous.

I’m a risk taker, but today I cling to certainties.

You’re on my path. That’s all I know.

I want to know more. I want to know: who flung those arrows into your heart, how did you escape the pain, and what have you learned about walking in this world? How did you learn to sing and what drives you to get up in the morning?

I want to know the answers below the answers. I yearn for soul connection.

It starts with the eyes. Yet, sometimes I turn away from yours. It’s the intimacy I crave colliding with my protection mechanisms.

I want to ask, why are you still here? And, thank God you’re still here.

Yet, I look away. I look away? Forgive me.

I’m afraid of the unknown, disappointing one more man, and death—yours—even though I don’t know you that well yet.

Only beyond words. From that other lifetime where we meant something to each other that’s been carried over here—in coincidences, synchronicities, habits, and conversational patterns.

So, lean in and tell me the color of my eyes; I’ve forgotten.

Maybe I need to go to the mirror before I can meet you where you are.

I wish to know you, to see you. I wish to rip off your mask and talk deep with ease.

See, I’ve got a thousand hopes, but today, I only offer you my hand.

 

I Envy Her

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It’s not the secrets of beautiful women I long to know. For what women’s magazine doesn’t try to seduce and sell me those? There’s the beauty you’re born with and that which we enhance with products and procedures.

What I long to know is how the mediocre, or—God, shall I say it?—the ugly dance from their souls as if unfazed by the mirror and society’s sneers. How do those women get over the fence with a presence beyond any pretense?

You know her. You’ve seen her. She catches our eyes without being what we consider eye-catching. She’s deep and alive, making the surface irrelevant. Her beauty bubbles from her soul and we find her unavoidable, undeniable, even enchanting. She’s beyond what ordinary women give chase to. She’s not trying to erase the wrinkles earned in the sun determined to become a bronze beauty.

She doesn’t wear lipstick, but could be a model for an artist. If only she’d stand still. No time for painting her face or dying her hair. It’s not rebellion against or denial of society’s beauty standards.

What I envy is her not trying so damn hard to enhance.

She’s no slacker. Groomed and dressed, often. Yet, she glows of authenticity that can’t be bought, paid for, or put on. Her focus is elsewhere and it becomes her.

I want to know her secret for walking tall, laughing loud, grinning goofy, and dancing anything but graceful.

We all know Victoria’s Secrets. And there’s no maybe about it. Ladies, it’s Maybelline. But, that doesn’t do it for me.

What I want to know, hell, what I yearn to own is not what to put on my eyes or one more cosmetic or cream to buy!

I want to know how to set aside my pride and caress my soul into not worrying about the way I look, but be bold in how I live. I want to live into my beauty. Like her, the one I envy.

 

 

Strings on Gifts

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When your sister’s husband dies

You drop everything

As if you could do anything

About the thing that’s kicking her ass.

Damn, if it don’t make you ache to

Watch her brave it, and badly.

Because there’s no good way to do this;

Grief doesn’t look good on anyone.

Oh, it might make you wise.

Sure, someday, some way

The thing that takes you to the brink

Will bring you back with compassion.

Yeah, soon my sister’s life will

Feel like a call to action.

But, today, this moment,

It’s like a girl—if she had any—

Getting kicked in the balls.

A girl I grew up with.

A girl who stood up to life

When it told her to play it small.

She shouted, “Give me something big!”

It did. And took it away.

A high price to pay,

What she was asking.

Unprepared, as we all are

For gifts and their strings.

The Lioness Within Me

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I am strong. I am free. I am brave. I am a writer. I call on the lioness within me. I purr my way into the kingdom. No one senses danger at their door. They treat me like a housecat. Ha!

I shall roar at a least anticipated time. Even I will not know. I live the story I determine to tell. It unfolds before me as it dominoed behind me.

I am a writer. I put down my words with the precision and power of a lion’s claw. I’m in this jungle. I’m unafraid. I sleep peacefully in the darkness. I stalk my prey like a slow dance. I’m not cruel, but I’m hungry.

I allow my hunger to fuel me. I do not fight to prove my strength. I only walk according to my nature.

The jungle is loud. Everyone wants to sing their song. They all have so much to say. It plays like background music, like city traffic to a New Yorker. For I was born for this writers’ jungle.

I’m a memoirist. How I carry myself is how you will find me on the page. I will not even be on your radar until I’ve captivated you. Reading my book is like looking into a cougar’s eyes, that moment when you’re spooked, stoked, and you remember. It’s not magic. It’s my nature to wield my power. I am grounded.

I do not chase what’s above me, but I’m aware of all that goes on around me. I don’t care. The weather and what others are doing doesn’t change my purpose one bit.

This cat’s been called to write. Not to cower. Not to chase mice. To conquer what is before me in my path. Often, my best route is to simply walk around.

I’m honed into my destiny. I own my purpose. I own this jungle. It’s mine. I am strong. I am free. I am brave. I am a writer. I call on the lioness within me.