misplaced mama

 

[i am done with thinking this blog is a place for something other than a process like a result of a process.  this blog is the process.  phew.  how come it has taken me so long to remember that?]

* * *

I just took a small sip of something.  Enough to relax into my under-rested body.  There was a time when ujjayi breath  and forward folds were enough to unwind my spool.  Now my practice is a glass of vodka with a mango smashed in it.

 

 It’s a beautiful day.  Really, breathtakingly beautiful. I wake up to sunshine beating through the leaded windows.  It’s a white light, not white-white but yellow-white, a pale yellow white. It’s the color of New. I remember my dream:  huge explosion of reds and oranges and then Snap! Scene cuts: My family and I are happily in the jungle, but instead of legs, we have thick lizard tails.  I pet Mia’s and tel her it’s lovely, scales of greens of fuchsia.  That dream puts me into good spirits, it’s a sign.    The yellow light pouring in, lizard tails, it’s good. It’s a hopeseed in my heartcenter.  It has been a long time since I felt that seed.  

* * *

Z and I are alone in the house.  This happens sometimes once a week, but usually only once a month.  We’ve been rocking out to Cat Power and she is blowing kisses out the window to the dogs and the horse.

I sit down to write.  And then a better thought comes through.

 Outside.   I get in the dirt and pull weeds and plant some flower starts and really try to open my third eye and heart center of All Belief so I can converse with green and white and pink and purple etches wildly blooming.  I still feel so funny, a phony.  After all these years of doing it, trying to truly communicate with the plant realm, I still feel like a crack head doing it.   Somewhere in my heart a tiny bit of me doesn’t believe I can.  This is my job, to erase doubt. Fully.  It’s about not fighting that air stream that invites me in, that vacuum of energy that longs for me to just be taken, to believe in it, to travel with abandon and authenticity.  To question it, to devour it, to hate it, to be angry at it, to savor it,  to love it until there is nothing there but love.  the dirt, the flowers, the sun, the baby.  doubt exits.

* * *

I sit down to write.  And then some not so good thoughts come through.

Somewhere along the way I lost the belief.  WHAT THE FUCK. 

Mirror, Mirror (aka that bitch): Pathatic idealist! You hold optimism to a fault! DUMMY!  How long did you live for the future and now you are here you don’t know what to do!  Typical.  Plus you are fat and have acne and dark circles and your hair is tangled in knots.  And most of the time not you’re so much fun to be around, booorrr-ring!  And what about this house thing?  When you gonna deal with that? Can’t you even figure out how to pay a fucking mortgage?

Me hammering mirror with a two by four until it’s in shards all over the floor:  FUCK YOU!  Motherfuckingdickfuck. Bitch.

Somewhere along the way I forget that there are no mistakes, there are no ‘what we should have done”. there is no salvation or redemption or prosecution.  there is only what we have and in that is  the exact amount of air we need.

I have been writing about this forever and really barely ever live it.  And as of lately not only am I not living in belief, I am living in utter fear.  Fear of the unknown.  Of what will happen.  Of what might be.  Of not being able to survive (literally and figuratively) where this particular thermal, spiral is taking me.  

And then DUH.   Spiral don’t go anywhere.  There is no beginning or end, no left or right.  There is only that air that carries to different levels, different worlds.  I watch flocks of birds; eagles, voltures, hawks, mainly, enter into thermals.  Each on a different level, spiraling upward, wings utterly still, not moving at all.  They travel by the warm air carrying them up through the cold, creating their own special pocket.   They go where it goes. The only choice they made was to believe it and fly into it.

* * *

The place is loud and packed and he is a chicano, close to 60, thick gray hair pulled back into a neat pony.  He’s up from a city down south  to hear Heavyweight  Dub Champions, the extraterrestrial music that surrounds us. 

where do you live? he asks.

off the valley highway. 

1979, it was 1979. he tells me.  I drove through before there was any logging,  fishing, no industry at all, untouched. .  It was the most beautiful place. Eden, whateverthefuck that is,  perfect. Hell, someday I always thought that valley would be my home. 

come up anytime.

hey I have a question for you, he says.  What are you doing with your life right now?  My brother died last week.  Puts things in perspective.  Are you doing what you need to be doing for you, for humanity?

i raised my beer to him.  i’ll drink to that.

* * *

I am here.  In this place, this perfect place.  Mountains are grand and towering, snowcovered magic watching over every shade of green in the book of green.  It is suck-in-your-breath and gasp perfect.  It reminds me how flawed and ugly I am, how needy and righteous and angry and lame.  How complainy and fucked in the head.  How jealous and greedy.  How ego-driven and entitled.  I look around and see perfection and i am like, wow, girl, you gotta just get with it, with this.

How can i come from such perfection, such heart-racing beauty, where rivers cleanse the body and the dirt offers up the most vibrant and essential nutrients and not notice that i MIRROR this perfection in every singe moment.  Even in Her scarred state: logged and cleared and milled and fished and built-upon, this Earth is gloriously, everything perfect, a perfect healer, and perfect planet and then how come i don’t see myself this way? i am not seperate from any of it.

* * *

I am writing in the warm breeze with sunshine pouring down over my shoulders like a liquid balm.  And I am so attached.  So attached to here, to this land,  to all these amazing people who surround me, to the little girls I get to love daily.  I am so attached to the lamb’s ear that grows on the side of the garage and the peonies that are beginning to bloom and the chive flowers that have exploded and the food that stirs just above earth in the food garden.   I am so attached to ideas and things and images and love. i am so attached to one particular pair of boots.

The only thing I am not attached to are these words.  I let go of them so freely, I let them grow, from some kind of love, scattered with fucks and magic and mother-business and then I let go of them, and only hope they land in the heart of exactly where they are meant to be.  These words can never be bound, organized, situated, planned.  They can never be part of a system.   They are the essence of me and this world and once the are breathed, like vibrational compost they transform into something fertile and fresh and nourishing.  I don’t know where they go, but they don’t belong to me.  Never did.

* * *

and then i get it, when i look at them, i just GET IT.

this is truly her energy, ethereal in strut.

felt crown queen at the beach.

papa rocks baby

mia and her soulsister.

nothing but hope.

hippy hula hooper.

 

glowing fuzz head.

three sisters.  i must have done something right somewhere to be trusted with them.  

om. om. om.