What the Faith?

Faith is like a scientific experiment. It's your controlled substance you plug-in too, like one of those nifty electric car stations you see scattered about town.  It's always there, never waivering unless you scrap the whole idea and think you can do it alone.  It'll still be there drumming it's fingers on your life until you wake the hell up and try again. It teaches you patience.  It teaches you sacrifice.  It teaches you that all the shit you've been through is merely a hoop you'll jump through to get to a bigger, more brilliant hoop.   
Some shy away from that word. Eww faith ! It's like saying toilet paper in the 50's - no one likes to say it out loud as it may make people judge you.  I say Who Cares.  If a person is judged by their own beliefs and it isn't harming anyone, F that.  Fear is to Faith as Death is to Life.  If you go around living in a bubble, because so-and-so said  you were a dumb fuck, that dumbfuckishness will shape you to be the absolutely Best dumbfuck in ...Fuckerdom.  If you live in a belief that you can run naked through the mud of life (well, not literally) and see what happens next, know what ever Will happened will be ok, then buddy, you got Faithed.   The belief in a power greater than ourselves is rich.  The unchanging belief that I can do anything if I set my sights toward that goal is Rich.    The things that Do change are the variables; the actions, thoughts that bounce around in our heads, like kids jumping on a feather bed.  If we can take that belief in our pockets and apply good sense and work, we can do amazing things...but we have to see how fear can be the catylyst for change, not the enemy of Life
I have to see, remember, utilize what I've done to see with open eyes how faith works.  I'm not turning into a bible-thumper or a egocentered hypocryt if I have faith.  I'm empowered with a new battery pack, that will take me over the puddles and maybe through a couple too, but I know I'll be okay on the other side.                                                                                         

Whats My Part

Alright.  It's been a couple days since I spoke to you, sweet blog o' mine.  Have I been good to you? No...sigh. neglectful as f but still remember where you live.  You live in my mind; my twisted, beautiful, sometimes complacent, always repectful mind.  Though I seem to have misplaced my pen, I haven't misplaced that thing called Change.  Change is like the lint you can't seem to get off your favorite sweater.  It follows you, taps you on the shoulder when you think you're alone or in the "all good" mode, and shifts the gears on lifes vehicle (like that one?!) and spins you out into new & vastly undiscovered territories.  God how I loath change.  and lint.   Or do I?  Do I really dread change or do all of those lazy-assed complacent cells in my body really crave it?  Do they feed off of it like hungry larvae because they secretly crave the things I fear most?   The answer is an undoubtable kick-in-the-head Yes.
A lovely human walked into the shop ( oh yes...since I've last written, I've changed jobs, got fired, got hired, met boys, ran from boys, ran from girls, buried animals, wept profusely, moved 8 or maybe 9 times, drank alcohol, stopped drinking alcohol, ran from more people and...found-lost-and found my chi.  Now that you're caught up, no more questions. thankyouverymuch).  So what was I saying before I so rudely interrupted myself?  oh yeah...
A lovely human came into the shop, and after said duties of both of us were done, we talked about life, crystals and Life in capitals.  That should be the name of my business: Life in Capitals.  Anyway....She was and is and probably always will be a life coach.  Not the hey batta batta kind, but the I-want-to-help-you-get-off
your-ass-kind.  I think we could help each other greatly.  Talking to a real person, as in a face-to-face kind , would be useful.  I would much rather have a relationshipish face-to-face kind of person in my life instead of a virtual kind of human (thus this virtually inhuman blog I'm typing must be a dream. or a nightmare my single fan is experiencing.  Sorry fan. You count.  you really do. I will surely send you a token of my appreciation for following me.  You virtually matter.  you really do ) :)
Seriously though.  I value work and technology, and new experiences that can be handled via computer, but I truly think the human race is failing to see how incredible and incredibly important it is to see each other in our totality. not just virtually.  How do I know my fan is legit?  It may be my fan is a spy or an axe murderer who reads my blog when the're in the bathroom .  Who knows?   When I meet my fan in person, I will firstly bathe them in compliments and offer cookies and tea, thanking them for their support and virtual wisdom and commitment.  I will then plunge into the why side of their following , as part of me is fucking insecure, which should really be one word - fuckinginsecure. The fuckinginsecure part of me will tread water just a titch because being secure is still being able to acknowledge and periodically wallow in said insecurity.  It reminds us where we've been (hiding) and where we stand today.
My point is...there is no point.  There is breath that I need to feel when my fan talks to me.  There is eye movement and body language they tell me when I'm telling one of my would-you-get-to-the-point sagas.  We are both sages and students.  We are both aligned to give and receive information in order to grow and bloom and discover and experience the oh-yeahs in life.  Not just sharpen their reflexes to dodge and delete.  Technology is  beautiful, but human touch is much More.

Just over a month has passed since my last entry. I'm surrounded by friends that want the best for me; my trusty rogues, flying high in the sky.  I watch with wonder as they help me put lifes fires out and add fuel to my own joie de vivre.  Opening myself up, exposing myself to a life where the glass can and should be half full is a blessing.  Letting the glass-half-empty practice wither is so gratifying and timely.  I've come into a life where there is loads of possiblity just waiting for me.  I cannot go back to who I was.  Spirit has planned this all along.

The present scenario I'm "living" in has shown me a lot.  It has taught me that a truly cluttered life starts with a cluttered brain.  Seeing this property littered with shit is an immensely accurate portrait of what is going on in the owners brain.  I've experienced her clusterfuck of rants, and instead of spewing back with the same dark force of energy, I check myself.  I make sure my side of the road is clean, so to speak, then reply accordingly.  It really isn't all that difficult when I remove the desperation and focus on the solution.  I do not and will not function in an environment where being a bully is more important than being a compassionate human.  There is no room in my world for idiots.

Yesterday is over.  I am done with forfeiting my dreams in order to make others happy.  Living from place to place, I put my animals in jeopardy just to have them with me. Saying that I could take the best care of them was prideful, as I know they have come here on this earth to love and be loved, no matter if it's me or another lucky person.   Their next owners will fill them with a life that they deserve.  I simply couldn't do it anymore, as I was compromising my needs in order to think I was saving theirs.  If I truly love animals, it is an honor to find them a home that can care for them, be there for them, give them all that they need while also living their own life well.
It is indeed one of the most painful losses, but I have to realize my dream.  In order to realize what I've been put here for, I have to step out of the way and let my heart be heard.  I have to find me; the creative part of me that is deep within the core of my being.  I have not been honoring myself and looking at what I need to bloom.  I've just put the seed in the bottom of a hole, covering it with excuses and fears instead of enriching it with Truth, Wisdom, Positivity.

The sacrifices I made yesterday have left me completely flat emotionally, but when I see and re-read The Alchemist, I remember that the fuel I need to energize again isn't to be found in a pill, wine, negativity.  It is found when I see what lengths I went to make necessary change.  I did hella things in order to be happier, so now I have to bless the experiences leading up to this very moment I'm typing to you, dear journal, and see what is next with fervor and excitiement, not jumbled nerves and crying.  I have see my tears in different categories: it is greatly healing to cry when there is grief, loss, pain.  There is a time and a place to share these things, and I must get a better handle on my floodgate of tears shed at the drop of a pin!  There are the tears of excitement, where your face is blissfully hurting from realizing your goal, seeing hardwork rewarded or...reaching or pursuing your personal legend.  The tears that are the most disturbing and run out of every pore of me at any given moment are the tears of forecasted fear.   I call it that because they futurize the unknown horizon and think the worst is about to happen.  I mean, I have lived in allllllll kinds of precarious scenarios - you would think that these prepare me to receive Any thing without being fearful.  There is a time and a limit the Universe allows for upset and fear.  It is at those times where I am not supporting my calling and trying to control my environment.  I came here to realize something my parents did not.  I came here to be of service, to be happy, to make others light shine makes mine shine greater.  It is my time..

I haven't written for nearly a year. Though I'm not here to make up for lost time, I am merely here to make up with myself.  I have not been an attentive partner.  I've neglected everything that matters; my psyche, my belief in others, but especially the belief I had in myself.  I used to be a fighter, a negotiator, my own advocate.  Now my brain is fuzzy, I trust no one and I go through my days like I'm thumbing through a boring book of fiction.
I read this wonderful work by Dr Brenne Brown on Shame.  She did an interview with Maria Shriver that sounded like she was reading Me. "Shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging'.   If she could actually interview me, what would I say?  Would I be able to share from my gut, a different part of me?  One that is stronger, sounds better, a clearer defined part of me that I didn't know was inside?

The thing is, Magic and Shame don't go together Magic is oil to Shame's vinegar.   I have let shame into my life, and it has worn out its welcome.  It's time to sweep that guest out of my house, as it is just does not fit with my decor!  I really do think changes happens when I let myself be open -  I just allow my whole being to be porous, soaking up the entirety of the promise or the possibility, or too-good-to-be-trueness of another. But in this phase of my life, I have not left any space or energy for me.  In other words: I've wasted so much time holding space for people and the problems they bring to me, I've nothing left for myself.
 
I re-read my entries and feel like they all sound the same.  The shake-up needs to happen!  I need to stop carrying the black cloud around and just leave it for Eeyore.

Don the cape

I had yet another Light bulb moment.  I Am a Writer.  This realization knocked me clean into Kentucky and wasn't something that happened overnight.  It happened probably as soon as I was old enough to put two words together and make my first sentence. I was a Writer even back then.  My only fan was my sister, my quirky confidant.   We were polar opposites stuck in a family that thought girls were useless and were constantly reminded of that notion.   Endlessly.  My sister, who is 6 years older than me was like the Poster Child of Nerdom.  She could've probably won awards for it, but instead, was bullied and messed with because she was smart and different.   I love every bit of that Nerd, because she taught me to write and to think and to Dream.  She taught me that just because I was cute and blonde, I needed to use my brain not my looks, because sooner or later, the hair would turn colors (she checked Daily!) and my looks would change.  Thanks, sis...thanks a lot.

In addition to my tutelage from my sister, I wasn't doing normal kid things like the other kids in my 'hood. Instead of making tree houses and pretend bat caves, I was sequestered on one of those lawn chairs of the 70's, where you wear the imprint of the webbing on your ass all day.  I studied the thesaurus.  Yep,  I became a wordsmith at the ripe old age of 6.  I would sit there for hours looking up words and writing poems and stories.   I got accolades from my first grade teacher for my poems and even got published in the local newspaper.  I still have the article to this day - 'Squeaky the Mouse' made it in the paper next to the ad for gas for a buck and the obituaries.  My poem, "War, War...What is it for?" made it as far as my first grade teachers bulletin board, as the subject matter was too advanced for a kid like me to write about.  It dealt with the atrocities of war from the innocent eyes of a 7 year old kid.  Mind blowing that it was over looked and misunderstood, but I was a kid in the Midwest, so go figure.  

Over time, I've written and scraped many poems, kept more journals than there are volumes of the encyclopedia.   When I was unattached, I used to befriend guys online to test drive my stories.  I had given up finding a guy that understands me for Me, so instead I seasoned my dialogue with just the right kick to keep them wanting more. They fell in love with my writing, but never got as far - or as near - as looking into my eyes and seeing the depth my heart could truly go.  I put a limit on my spending as far as my writing went. I was very frugal with my stories and poems, as I knew if I 'sold out', I could never really have my souls secrets to myself anymore,.  That's why they call them secrets after all.  I preferred to be a bit of a ghost writer to these men that swooned over my words, as the confidence faded when time comes to actually meet the someone that has fallen...for my writing.  The risk of maybe someday someone Getting me was a tightrope I was not quite willing to walk.  How about if they reject me - say my work is stupid?  No way, no how. I always kept a metaphorical baseball bat at my side in case someone failed to see my tender heart lay behind my mellifluous words. 

Fast forward to my Light Bulb moment.  That thing I was getting to that I had to take 3 or more paragraphs, before editing, to explain.  The thing I need to focus on is not if my writing wins other people over, but if it wins Me over.  I'm not looking to fall in love with a reader, because then I would become the 13th Disney Princess and become animated and buxom.    I needed to fall in love with myself, with my writing; see that I have purpose and unleash my guarded heart, not settle for Mr. Almost.  .


Once burned
lessons learned
twice shy
stupid guy
wants to look for something more
sounds like Macys closed at 4

Told me he's a fragile man
Can't you buy that in a can?
Think I'll put him on a shelf
Sell him for a penny
Give him free if you don't mind
I'm calling in his nanny

More is betta
so he said
I though that meant in money
Conquests are a dime a dozen
 I don't think its funny 

Maria ... I just made a gem named Maria!

This may seem like a fairly simple feat for the average jewelry artist.  Making jewelry that is pleasing the eye of both the creator and their audience.  It's more than that for me.  Two years ago, I could see myself walking into my studio area, fondling the individual stones, maybe even piecing something together in my head, but it would stop there.  I wouldn't, couldn't let myself see that I had even a smidgen of creativity to follow this pursuit, this seemingly straightforward task of creating this perfect little bauble.  Looking at these today, I haven come a loooong way, baby!

When I started my journey back through this Ptsd stuff, I had no idea what I would uncover.  The road is painstakingly hard and slow as a baby turtle, yet I know I am no where near the Finish line.   When I started delving into this Pandora's Box of Emotions, I prayed,  meditated, threw salt over my shoulder....anything that would take me back to the Me I knew was inside. With the help of time, patience and a few wonderfully wise women, I have begun again.

I titled this on my jewelry site, The Maria, as it is sleek, beautiful and quietly strong.  The real Maria that inspired this piece has all of these qualities...and then some.  I had the privilege to meet her last summer at Brave Girls Camp; an experience I'll never forget.  None of us will. The experience of bonding with these girls was like the Ya-ya's,  the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants and any other fantastical novel about a group of seemingly different women, coming from different paths, different socio-economic levels, meeting in a lovely, unbiased, neutral ground to Find ourselves..  We saw that inside, in our core, we all want the same thing.  Love.  Love of self, more than any other type of love,  is the missing link.  The key ingredient that Connects us all.