I am very sad about what happened yesterday with the shooting. I used to be a school teacher, and a close friend lives near the school where the shooting took place. I also have young children. My heart goes out to the parents, families, and the entire community where this tragedy occurred. What I find interesting, with me, is I have so much angst and fret over this shooting that the event has caused me to go into a type of mental hibernation.
I am feeling a loss deeply in my heart and physical body, but at the same time I feel myself distancing myself from the tragedy, as the media upsets me with their need for profit and exploitation of people’s lives and suffering.
Also, there are many other people suffering in the world, and I believe my focus should be on everyone, not just a select group of people.
I find myself confused by my emotions. And I am in essence escaping into a fantasy of love and lust with my muse. This is my place of retreat. I delve into another place, another life, a time where everything is about love and being connected in union.
At first glance I thought I was being heartless, concentrating on my lust and passion, after such a great tragedy, but then I realized I was doing what I know best, what I have always done when the emotions are turned up too high and when reality seems too unfair and unkind to remain a part of: I escape into my own world.
Today, I will likely listen to music, write poetry, avoid the media, and try to refocus on the light in our world.
This darkness has a second-degree of power, how it holds the ability and enticement to pull us all momentarily into the dark and sense of hopelessness and fear. I refuse to go there. For me, this means continuing my life as is, while carrying love for the nation and world in my heart.
I cannot focus on something so terrible. I see no benefit in this. I see benefit in focusing on love and the goodness in our hearts. The vast goodness we have as a collective. It troubles me terribly knowing that so much pain is broadcasted across the screens.
I pray for a time that “bad news” doesn’t sell. I am feeling somewhat lost and disturbed by some people’s reactions and focus.
I felt I had to explain myself, as my poetry seems off topic based on the nation’s current focus. However, I am on topic, in my own way, just trying to escape the heart pain in the best way I know how, without harm to myself, to others, and without further spreading sadness.
May the light of the world outshine the darkness. And may we find comfort in the beauty around us.
Fifteen years ago, when I was in my late-twenties, I heard my angels; they told me: “You are going to write your story. You are going to write to heal others and yourself. But it won’t be for a long time. You still have a lot to go through. You will not use your real name and you will not make money. This is your gift.”
A year before that, a seer told me: “The best part of your life will begin in your early forties, when half of your life is over. Until then your life will be very hard. Your life career will change, and I see you in front of many people teaching and touching people all over the world.”
Eight years ago, during a powerful vision, I was told to write my story to heal others and to heal myself. I was told I would not be writing for profit. That I was not to make money or this would take away from the healing. I was told to start writing. I fell asleep and dreamt I was a giant oak tree, and people were gathered around me in unity celebrating and crying. They were healing through me, through my journey. When I opened my Bible, after I woke up, the Book fell open to the passage of the tree on the hill and the prophet. I began writing that day.
Seven years ago, a seer told me: “Everyday You Write the Book, the spirit of your grandfather is here singing this song. You will write and your words will reach people in a profound way, and you will bring healing to the world. It will touch people in a way you never imagined.”
Two years ago people began to remark on the healing energy surrounding me and of my “glow.”
Last year, a seer told me: “You are going to write. You are going to teach. You are going to reach people, and help them to heal.”
Having been told in several ways my destiny, there was definitely many times I felt inadequate, and many other times I felt I was insane.
There were times I pleaded to God to make my passion to heal the world stop.
Times I pleaded not to see and know so much.
I wanted a normal life.
I wanted the simple.
Still, after the vision of the oak tree, I spent everyday for a year, (except one day), writing. The end result was a release of so much negative energy and past wounds that I sank into a deep depression.
I cursed the heavens for what they had ‘made’ me do, and for the resulting failures. My writing wasn’t up to par. My skills were mediocre at best. After a year of tears and sweat, there was still so much more work to do.
I took a year off. Not planning to write ever again. The prophesies and my angels were clearly mistaken, and I was surely crazy.
The third year I was called again, and spent months redrafting my first writings. Still no luck. No one would look at my work. No publisher, at least.
But still this longing. I was supposed to write. I had to write. The second draft was not one of sorrow, but one of rage. I was so angry at my mother and for my past. I spent months in isolation and pushing others away.
I rested, almost another year, before writing again. The third draft was magic. My heart sang. The anger and sorrow released. And there was a lovely healing rhythm and love to my writing. The third draft was of forgiveness. By the end, when my manuscript was done, a large part of my past was healed.
Still no audience, though. No way to share my works.
I let it go. I’d done all I could. A part of me gave up. A part of me thought everything was just a coincidence, and that I only heard my angels to make myself feel special. I cried over the loss of my calling. And I mourned a part of me. Primarily my ego.
It wasn’t until this year that I began to share some of those writings and much new writing through this blog..
I hadn’t realized that just like my grandfather had sung those many years back: Everyday she writes the book.
I had absolutely no idea I would be writing for an audience any larger than a handful of people. Mostly, I wrote for me. I wasn’t intending to heal or help anyone, but myself. I’d let go completely of my calling, at least in regards to healing others through writing.
Slowly, through the months, I began to see that what I had been told all along was coming to fruition—the reaching others around the world, the different name, the no need or desire for profit.
The last seer I saw, a little over a year ago, she said I had the gift of creating a safe haven for people. I was a guardian of sorts. I didn’t understand then.
Remarkably, in the last months, through this blog, I have healed more than I ever thought imaginable. Not just at a physical level, but at a spiritual level, and even at a cellular place.
My husband and I both agree that the light in me has returned, a light I think I lost about the age of thirteen, when the fear of what life entailed set in.
Age Thirteen
At times, I truly feel like I went away for a couple decades, just slipped out because life was too much. I don’t know who took my place, but it wasn’t me. I look back at this woman I was, and I don’t recognize her. I truly don’t. I love her. I know she was in essence a part of me. But she wasn’t me.
This is Eleven Years ago. My son with ASD and Me
I know the light returned because despite the trials of my life, I never gave up hope. I never let the world destroy my heart. I never stopped loving. I never stopped believing I could make a difference. Even when I wanted to die, my angels led me forward by reminding me to: Think of the Children. I know that in addition to my three sons (all birthed on a Sunday) that they meant the children of the world.
I’ve known since I was a very young child I would be called to be a healer. Probably at the age of four, when I stopped eating lamb as I didn’t have the heart for it. Probably again when I was nine, and I hid in the bushes weeping as I couldn’t comprehend the vastness of the universe and the depths of human suffering. Probably too, when as a child I would sit with people in convalescent homes by myself, just so I could be near the lonely at heart. I knew I was a healer when I became a teacher, and later when I served as an advocate for children with special needs. I knew too, when I began to write.
What I didn’t know is the profound effect the healing would have on my own life and journey. I didn’t know how deeply I would be blessed.
Today I woke up frightened. I felt like I regressed. I began to cry. The fear was back. I couldn’t see a way out.
All about me the walls closed in. I became immobile, unable to do anything but feel and respond to the fear. My body shut down. I had pain everywhere. I was taking on the world, taking on the fear, taking on the dark.
I couldn’t stop.
I was brought back to a place I sat months ago. To a place I don’t wish to return.
But this time something was different. I had another me. A stronger me. And she was there holding me and cheering me on.
She shook me out of my place. She made me reach out. She made my light shine. She led me back to the amazing place I created on a social network site, filled with the most beautiful, caring of souls.
A safe place.
And I reached out.
I wrote: Please send me positive vibes….not doing well today physically. Frustrated. Thanks so very much. xoxoxo Brain fog, too. ♥ love to you all.
Within moment, before me, people reached out in all forms and ways from all over the world.
I received messages of:
Hearts
Wind from the Valley
Positive Vibes
Positive Energy
Hugs
Music
Lots of Love
Sorry you are having a rough time
Looking North
Much love Sweetheart
Big Bear Hugs
Loving healing bubbles of light
Dark Chocolate
Smiley Faces
Mashed Potato
Hope
Within a few minutes my pain dissipated, my fear decreased ten-fold, and I was able to breathe again. I was able to live again, and to find myself.
I was only lost for a moment, just long enough to be reminded that I am never ever going to be alone again.
Just long enough to know that I have created through vulnerability, honest, and pureness of heart the most wonderful place that draws to it the most wonderfulest of souls.
If ever there was to be a people I’d want to cherish, it would be these people. For they face challenges upon challenge. They face ridicule, displacement, misery, isolation, worry, dread, and pain on a daily basis. Their days are never easy. Their minds always searching.
And still they shine; they shine like no others, giving and loving unconditionally.
They have freed me. As have the people who read my words. And the people who write to me. The people who hold me in love and in thought. The people who thank me. They have freed me. You have freed me.
If there is one thing I could tell you, I would say this: Be you. Be the best you that you can be. Shine your light so brightly that your own soul sings out in celebration. And then watch how the light follows you, how the world unfolds, how your richest and purest dreams become the steppingstones to glory.
“I think he might like me,” I told my husband, in reference to a man at a coffee shop.
“What do you mean?” my husband asked.
“Well, he was smiling and taking interest in me,” I answered.
“Honey, he doesn’t like you; he doesn’t even know you. He is attracted to your body or something about you physically. That is different from liking you.”
“Oh,” I answered.
The next day, as I was heading out the door to go to the grocery store, my husband said, “Remember if a man looks at you because he is attracted to you that doesn’t indicate that the man likes you. You are a very pretty woman who some men find attractive. But their attention doesn’t mean they like you.”
I found his words to be a mixture of both comfort and confusion.
I am slowly, very slowly, learning the social innuendos regarding communication with men. I never knew there were so many unspoken rules when speaking with men. It’s fair to say I’ve got the female social interactions down, but now there seems to be this whole other guidebook regarding men.
I think, for me, having not had the example of a healthy father and mother relationship, nor brothers, or even uncles that I knew well, as a child, meant that I never had the chance to really learn how to interact with a man, except single men I sought after to make my husband. (starting at age six)
And, I guess, too, the actions of predators in combo with the uncouth behavior of some other men, added to my confusion of my place in the world as a woman.
I only had one male friend as an adult for a very short time. He wasn’t actually a friend, really, more of a member of a support group that I belonged to, a man about fifteen years older than me, who I once in a while saw outside of the support group–maybe once or twice. I was involved with another man at the time—obsessively. So I never saw my friend as anything but a friend. And I was like a little sister, to him.
Interestingly, after lacking in male interactions for over four decades, I’m still looking at males the same way I did when I was six. They might have aged, and I might have aged, but the little girl inside of me is still wondering is that my prince?
It doesn’t matter that my husband adores me, and that I think he is a very dear man. I doesn’t matter that I logically understand that there is no prince out there. What matters is I still have this pattern. I still see men as someone who I want to make love me. That if they love me then I am of worth. But this love isn’t based on how they see me inside; it is based on how they see me outside.
Likely, (obviously) there are still some Daddy Issues; the holding, hugs, kisses and I love you’s from a father that never materialized.
The fact that I need validation of my physical worth from a male, more so than a female, and that indeed a female’s opinion of me, unless repeated over and over, does null for my self-esteem, is troublesome.
Logically, I recognize that the opinion of another is not a reflection of my worth, but somehow I still hold onto a man’s words and actions towards me more than my own belief and love of myself.
I’ve grown up some in the last few months, grown up to the point that I am hyper-aware of my thought processes, actions, and my emotions. There are very few moments in the day that I’m not an observer of self: outside of my own body watching me exist and walk through the steps of my day.
I understand what I am doing in regards to the power I grant men. I used to think it was shyness, now I think it is a not knowing, a not understanding, a confusion and displacement of ease. Standing near any man close to my age or older, causes my ears to turn red and face blush. Almost any grown male seems to put a magical spell of nervousness, meekness, neediness, and insecurity upon me. I naturally become a shy, flirtatious giggle machine, complete with batting eyes and the flushing cheeks.
I realize that I was basically unseen and unnoticed, very much invisible, in most areas of my life, until I blossomed at the age of fourteen and began to gain attention based on my appearance. I was homecoming princess, popular, and dated a very handsome boy. I learned then that my looks could serve as a form of power: a way of being seen.
I learned to equate being seen with having worth.
I am starting to reprogram my prior learnings.
I am interacting with males more and recognizing they are no less powerful or magical than females, that their opinions are not more important than others’.
The hardest part is I still don’t understand the nuances of male/female communication. I don’t understand how much I should look into a man’s eyes, how close I should stand, how I should smile, what my tone should sound like, what topics are socially appropriate. I don’t understand what most people seem to learn subconsciously through experience.
I understand now how often men have actually flirted with me throughout my life. I understand now why, in high school, I shouldn’t have been having an ex-boyfriend massage my back when I was involved with a new beau.
I am starting to understand how I surely give out mixed signals, matching and mirroring a male, thinking that reacting as a mirror-image is the safe and appropriate technique. After all, it works with females!
I feel so very alien and unprepared for earth, as I approach the male zone.
In dealing with male encounters, I don’t want to come across as a prude, or rude, or stuck up, or extremely shy, or as a flirt. I just want to come across as me. The problem is I don’t know what that looks like.
I’ve trained myself to make facial expressions based on my environment and whom I am with. I’ve trained myself to act in the best way possible, to not lose female friendships and to not embarrass myself.
I don’t have a natural facial expression. I don’t know what that even means. It used to be, if my face was relaxed that my mouth was downturned, and I then appeared mean and unapproachable. For a few years, I walked about with slightly puckered lips. Silly, but true. Now my face has been trained to be in a constant puffy-cheeked smile in public.
I looked at my husband the other night, as he was checking me out, and I said, “Okay. So I’ve added a new understanding, a new rule to this computer brain of mine. I have new input. I now know that a man looking at me doesn’t mean they like me. But now I am confused, because you look at me with desire all the time. So does that mean you don’t like me? Does that mean you only care about my body?”
My husband then spent the next several minutes explaining to me about the concept of getting to know someone, of how attraction can turn into like, and like to love, and then, after time, the person is liking the whole of you.
I stared back at him with a quizzical expression. My eyes grew wider. “I don’t understand,” I said. “In all my male relationships (boyfriends) I loved the person as soon as I met them. It didn’t change. It doesn’t grow. It just was.”
I went on to explain my perception of love. That yes, indeed, I can grow to respect a person, to enjoy their company, to take great pleasure in learning from them, and grow in companionship and familiarity, but that my love doesn’t grow. It remains the same.
I began to see, through my husband’s explaining, that clearly I don’t experience life as many people do, particularly love. I don’t experience relationships in the same way, either—or communication.
Last night while at the local store grocery store, I asked a handsome store employee for some help finding a dessert wine. I know little to nothing about wine. Just asking a man for help is a huge step for me. I have to stop myself from staring at my feet, stuttering, giggling, and staying stuff that is just plain stupid.
He asked if I was going to need the dessert wine for dinner, for dessert, or after dessert, and what dessert I was having. He said this while staring deeply into my eyes, as if searching, and connecting. I stared back for a while. Locked eyes. I was processing.
I didn’t know why I wanted the wine, or what I was going to have the wine with. I just wanted to have something sweet. I processed how the man was looking at me, and I did what I knew to do, I stared back, mirroring the man, as I processed his communication skills thinking: This man is really good with eye contact. I wonder if my mascara is smeared. My ears are on fire. I am nervous. Can he tell? I’m so glad I have this hat on.
So many thoughts, so very fast. With even more intense eyes, I offered, “I don’t know why I want the wine; I just want to drink it.”
I think I came across as giggly, clueless and cute, perhaps even flirtatious. Not my intention.
The man was standing very close, and very, very kind. (I think) He spent five minutes with me giving me a mini-lesson on wine, and showing me his favorite. I kept thinking: He doesn’t like me. He might find my eyes pretty. That’s why he can’t stop staring. And I think he swiped a peek at my butt, but he doesn’t like me.
The entire time I was listening to the brown-eyed man, I was simultaneously analyzing his body language, his choice of words, his proximity, his inflection, his everything. I noted there was some attraction going on, but I couldn’t tell if he was interested or flirting, or just nice to everyone.
In retelling the story to my husband, he took in the clues and observations of my encounter with the store worker, and reported that likely this man was somewhat interested in me. He reminded me I was an attractive woman. (He lingered at my beauty for awhile. Bless the dear man.) He explained that if a man instead of a woman had approached and asked this employee about wine, he likely would have been shorter in his explanation, not have locked eyes the entire time, and not smiled and offered out his favorite wine. He wouldn’t have been standing as close either.
I still don’t know. I told my husband, in all seriousness, (and while slightly tipsy from the port wine in hand), that I’d like him to come to the store with me the next time and stand back an aisle or two away, and watch how men approach me and interact with me, and tell me if they are flirting.
He said, “Honey, I really don’t take pleasure in watching other men pick up my wife.”
Hmmmmmmmm. Hadn’t thought of that.
For now, I guess I’ll keep watching men watch me, and calculate what it means. Take note in my little imaginary spy book. Note that a stare at my bottom doesn’t mean like, and definitely not love. Note that a prince isn’t likely out there roaming the wine aisle waiting to take me away to his castle to live happily ever after. Note that the attention towards my outward appearance doesn’t note my worth. Nor does the lack of attention. And note that though I may appear to others as an experienced butterfly, I am still very much a naive nervous caterpillar quivering inside.
It has been said that people who have Aspergers are deep thinkers and poets. I think for me this is a definite truth.
Sometimes I just sit and write whatever pours out of me….well often I do. I see pictures and images, and see a story created in my mind, and I also hear the words. I feel the rhythm of each word and syllable. It is smooth, unless I write the “wrong” word, and then I feel a huge stop, or barrier in the whole of me. This selection I wrote this morning in about fifteen minute, or however long it took to type. It is, to me, the longing for connection, for another, for the missing piece to be filled, for the agape of the creator or completion of the lover, though lover in essence is not completion. It is the heart’s cry to crawl out of the illusion of one and the isolation of desired recognition, the want to be seen and to be unified and brought back to the place of whole. To be blanketed in everlasting love. To be home.
Today I have this monster of angst and unsettled sensation stirring and grumbling inside of me. Like an emptied stomach craving a food it cannot imagine, cannot picture, cannot name. Only he roars nonetheless, told by another unidentified form that he is hungry, though he knows not the essence or meaning of hunger.
Today I have the demon of demise wrapped upon me, sitting on my lap unopened and uncared for, his hauntingly spirit enticing my delight. I long to reach into the unopened and explore, but know too well the finger shall be ripped and torn, and I, left to bleed, will weep for what was touched without end.
Today I snore in silence, my trumpeting sounds of slumber unheard, and thusly unmatched, unconquered and unquenched. I am territory that lays barren, untraveled and unclaimed. I wait, this land I am, for victim to unravel and unfold upon me; so I may, too, unravel and unfold and sleep beside, a spoon to spoon, a treasure to hold and keep; until the sun comes and I am but shadow upon shadow, a vision of myself in the coming light.
Today I spawn and spin, dazzled by your substance, which I cannot touch or breathe, but in your name. And words alone do not fill me, only deplete, so I am hallowed once more, deeper and deeper into self with only your thought. I cannot dance with you; I cannot bend myself into the latitude or longitude of where you stand. Though my desire deceives me, I wish upon the star of you like no other, and long with every scaffold of my lingering heart to climb upon you and feel the ever pounding of your being.
Today you are a vision dressed in the white of memory, unreachable and distinguished, high upon high; so distant that the thought of you still flies with broken wing to find where you begin. I cannot think upon you without being pulled back and hidden behind a barrier. I cannot envision you without seeing the bleakness and black and torrential rain. All about the dancing birds sing, and yet their calls are as the demon’s last meal, broken into bones and crushed in misery of the masses.
Today I scale the mountain of my own desire and stand face-to-face with what I have thusly named you. And how you stare at me through a tunnel within a tunnel, carved out of stone of the Gods. I hear them calling you back to them, and yet I remain screaming, as if my name, my place, my stance could pull you back against the darkness that pulls your thicker and thicker into the spinning weight of now.
Today no name, no wish, no answer is found, because all about you have climaxed and advanced, beyond the space of my imagined time. You are but whisper, hidden ghost between the sheets and layered curtains of nonexistence. You haunt me with your beauty and majestic ways; you entice me time and time again, an ocean rising at the peak of me, my lady parts, and then departing like a serpent eating through my soul. My organs bleed, my skin opens, your darkness enters and feeds again, and I am left less victim than willing participant in the horror that seems home.
Today I beseech you king of mastery, the pillar of my mind that falls as domino sweetly planned, the steep and valley set upon a table for child’s play. Knock me down, one by one, a mountain crumbled upon itself, the pieces separate but together, clanging and tumbling in a makeshift play created by the creator. Watch as the stumbling begins, as the one upon the next beats down to the final destiny of end.
For Today, at the end point you shall find me. The last to be fallen. The last alone. The singular hitting stone, when all else hit each other. Oh to be the starting point, the first, the beginning touched by your grazing hand. Though slapped, and forgotten and used for your design only, to still be shaken by your very hand, least the last dying domino in a line of soldiers forgotten.
Today, I bid you farewell, buried beneath the whole of me, siphoned and forgotten; and with each goodbye that comes and goes, resurfaces like the endless tides, I bid again, in dying breath; my last words the echo of my discernment wept and lost, my judgment buried, that which rests beneath shadow of hope, the darkened space forgotten where dreams die in the dungeon of invisible.
A short poem written before the previous selection, this morning; my first attempt to remove the angst inside. This is about confusion of emotions, of the confusion of being, of the not wanting to be seen and shaped by others as something I am not. It is about physical and mental pain. Before today, I didn’t say what my writing is supposed to be about. I think it is beneficial for the reader to take what they want from words and leave the rest. But for some reason, I needed to explain today. I don’t know why. I just do. Perhaps to make this life seem more real, and you more connected to me. I haven’t edited any part of this or changed it. It is a poem of thoughts and processing.
I’m on my couch, laptop in lap, a redundancy
I’m on the couch, hands hurting, as they do, with the onset of any suspicion
The body is up to something, some little bug or minor fixing
And thusly I am made captive to the lingering pain
Not right, not on, not balanced, and my frail substance bleeds
Calling out for the memory of form
The memory of childhood wholeness
I’m on the couch, and the clock ticks, his neighbor black fridge hums
Everyday Asperger's 