I want to write,
I really do. But I feel like a mute with her tongue cut out. My power, my gift on the planet, feels gone for a spell, to see who I am when I’m not hiding behind the page. I barely can feel my feet on the earth, I barely, rarely, know where I am when I wake up in the mornings. “Patient,” everyone tells me, be patient with this transformation. Like the leaves, quivering on the branches, your change is coming in the winds. I’m in that waiting room in Beetlejuice, betwen one life and the next, I’m in spiritual surgery, sprawled out on the table, they’re taking out what I couldn’t, what I didn’t have the guts to or what I couldn’t see myself. Goddess talks to me rarely, she just leaves the space behind my thoughts to quiet myself, to take my own hand, and I do, often, physically, take my own hand. I am partially here on this new coast for love, but that disappeared, like a mirage of water in the desert, as soon as I arrived, after crossing the states in my tiny red geriatric jeep, and taking two nights in a ghosttown of Madrid, New Mexico, it felt just like a magickal trick brought me here, like Goddess was a magician, and he was her illusion. “Now you see him, now you don’t,” because the only thing that ever moves me is love, and she knows that. A man at the lighthouse on my New England island heard me talk about my winter move to the warmer coast. He said, “You either fell in love or have a broken heart. That’s the only reason we leave here or land here.” And he was right. I landed there with a broken heart, I left with a thirsty one. Here it’s the wild open west, it’s the great frontier, endless possibility is thick in the air but it’s so hard without my furry familiar, who rests with my father in Virginia after surgery. But I wake up every night and feel her at my side like a ghost. Then the coyotes start to yip and growl in death council beneath my window, and I keep hoping they’re killing my meekness, my smallness my old story and my fear. My friend out here, she keeps me big, when I try to play small. My hope for you is people who keep you big when you try to play small.
I try to keep these posts less personal, I prefer to Mary Magdalene my writing, to keep it like a mirror, with less detail, just enough so you can see my story is yours. It’s my only hope at contributing to the healing of the planet, that I rise the feminine by bringing them out of hiding with my tales from the depths, my tales from my closet, my songs from my soul. The feminine energies of love and healing will save the world if it can be saved. All my friends out here are all healers, so I’m seeing it happen before my watery eyes. Everyone is rising into a healer, simply because this planet and its people need so much healing.
So I prefer to write in the third person, as “She,” and not “I,” for haven’t you felt the evolvement from Me, to We, but some things feel like they need to be said, like when people say, “See the World,” they don’t just mean the rolling hills of Scotland or the jungles of Costa Rica, perhaps they mean what I saw in Mexico last weekend, the babies in shopping carts, the dead dogs on the side of the road, the trash in the wilds and the people the people, with hollow eyes begging for food and selling puppies in the road. I had to see that too. And I had to not look away.
There isn’t a point to this post but to release, and to tell you, that when spirit does talk to me it is the same message again and again. To let life take me. To let life change me.
I’m hanging fearfully
onto the side of the cliff, white knuckling my life,
holding onto what I thought it had to be.
I need to just let go and fall into life’s sea.
I crawled a rock on my run in the hills of Topanga the other day to perch and take in the sprawling view like a hawk, and I could feel myself holding on so tightly to the narrative, my same old story, writing it over and over again just with different characters but the same goddamn ending again and again, in circles, and spirit took my tight balled fists of hands and opened them up and said, “Give God back the pen. Release control. Give the greatest story teller ever, back the pen.”