misplaced mama

It’s just her and I. We cuddle in bed, stuck by sweat and old soft cotton. Her body is tired from the stress of her usual pre-bedtime tantrum. Tonight’s involved a kid’s chair being thrown across the craft table. It’s like she has a one last monsoon of energy that needs dissipation before she can finally settle down into sleep. I sooth her with a hand against her forehead, humming a lullaby that I hear from my grandmothers, a rocking chair creaking somewhere from behind and above.

Mama, take away all the bad dreams.

I cup my hand over her head and imagine what could be in her mind that needs a vacuum into my palm.

Tell me when I have them all.

She scrunches her face and breathes deeply. Minutes pass. And then even more.

My hand cramps. My eyelids are weighed down with the need to end the day. I feel a little drop drip down the corner of my mouth. And then finally.

Okay. You have them all.

My hand holds them with care, tosses them towards the bedroom window, out against the half moon-lit sky, a rare night of stars uncovered by layers of marine. There you go bad dreams, out ! To the Universe! Get recycled into something beautiful.

Can something scary turn into something beautiful, mama?

Mama?

Are you really still awake?

She tosses and turns, trying to find a spot against me and like a backpack she attaches her arms and legs around me.

Sometimes, sometimes…..sometimes……I just get so angry. I get so mad it’s…..it’s…..it’s……..{though vast, her seven year old vocabulary still limits expressions of the deepest seat of emotion. so does mine.} Sometimes I say to myself, Mia, Mia, don’t throw that chair across the room but I don’t listen. and I do it. and I don’t want to. but i do it anyway because I am so mad, Mama.

I flip over so we are face to face, nose to nose. I kiss her forehead. She smells like worms and green apple jellybeans.

I know, baby. You feel things deeply. You’re a passionate person. People like us have a fire inside sometimes.

A real fire?

It feels real. I have it, too.

Sometimes you yell at the top of your lungs.

Yeah, I do. We are a lot a like, Mia.

That’s why you are my mama.

Keeping it simple. Homeopathy is when matter is brought to energy by dilution and succussion. An individual’s discomfort or dis-ease is then connected with the quantum energy of a medicine which somehow reflects or resembles the energy of the person and the dis-ease.

Homeo means Similar. Pathy: disease. Like dis-ease meets like cure in the most primal, vibrating form.

What happens when the two meet up (the dis-ease and it’s homeopathic counterpart) is dissipation. Not cure, not distraction, not heroic destruction, but a subtle and sometimes not so subtle kind of transformation into a state of Nothingness. (this is not to say that the journey of homeopathy doesn’t come with it’s own interesting bundle of quantum “side effects”or as I like to see it: a process.)

I am toying with the idea that people can be homeopathy for people, when intent and consciousness are ingredients. At least this exploration is easing my internal toss and turn of the question: have I passed this angst on to my daughter? My father passed it on to me? Someone to him? Why? And where and how does it end?

I’m not gonna pretend.

I have anger issues.

I’m not scared. Or nervous or anxious. I’m not oppressed or molested or timid. I’m not uninspired or unmotivated. I’m certainly not passive aggressive. Not a pathological liar. Not an addict.

I got The Anger.

And my dis-ease with anger is not the Anger itself. Anger is just an expression of what all is: Love. It’s not something that needs to be banished, but something that needs to live harmoniously within, a paying tenant to the temple, a productive and creative force. In my case, when I am out of balance my anger taunts love, challenges love to a Battle. When Love isn’t looking or has it’s guard down as love does because Love doesn’t see the need to defend, Anger jumps out from that skanky dark alley and attacks Love, stabs it in the gut with a serrated edged knife. Love bleeds.

Anger is a living entity fed by my personal neglect. I imagine it starting out as Pure Force, an original energy spiral at my base where it has always existed, born to live and grow and thrive. It offers to be alchemical. It longs to be beauty as fine as the stars and the moon; as surprising as street art in London; as mysterious as the voice of Nina Simone; as warm as Dalai Llama’s laughter; as seductive as a story written in red ink on tree bark. It needs air and compost. Water. Time. Focus. With neglect the Force gets restless, hot, impatient, scattered. Bored. Anger gets Angry. Then is burns. And burns. It burns past creation and introduces itself as a raging forest fire. No tree is left standing.

I have yet to master the Management of Creative Energy. I’m young on this path, to put it nicely.

My daughter comes to my life with a particle of similar. Of course our children all resemble us, the good, the bad and the unspeakable. In this particular relationship it’s with wide open eyes I can see the sameness, the tube of colloidal silver that streams from my center to hers. Since the first reluctant breath she took I heard it in her yelp and saw it in her eyes. It was like looking in the mirror. With me my words and energy get thrown like daggers and with her, chairs get hurled across the room. This isn’t by chance. This is the medicine way

I will be damned if I see it as a curse that she holds my boiling waters. I will be damned if I wallow in the wounds of her future, the one which doesn’t even exist. I’ll be damned if I wonder and worry and fret about the flickering flames I see in her eyes and feel against her heart. Fuck that. I’m gonna flip it. Totally flip that sob story.

We are each other’s similar. I am her remedy and she is mine. Brought by cosmic stream, attracted to through the magnetic force of likes. And this cycle, me as mother, her as daughter, we’re gonna just meet up and dissipate each other’s attack mode until it’s nothing but a beautiful piece of something. We all are each other’s homeopathy. Somehow.

At night I have taken the practice of holding her. I succuss us through my mind, imagining the waves tossing us up and down, up and down, up and down and when we fall upon the soft sand we are potentized. Inside the atom to the belly of the quark is the fire and karma from so long ago are just like that, it breaks down into nothingness, then together, her nothing and my nothing meet up Eye to Eye. My prayer is Transformation to the most holy and grand style of Creation.

The Creation is always Love. Healed in all it’s forms of expressions.

Love wins. Always.

I drive the craggy cliffside. As always the smooth bay water juxtaposes the rough and tumble of the earth’s edge. It’s where angry meets it’s peace. At least that is what I am telling myself. Even the roughest toughest only looks rough and tough and really, really deep down it’s still a reflection of this particular bay’s calm and easy love.

We blare a young hot emotional singer songwriter that the little one has an obsession with in the car. I’m not one for just guitar but he’s growing on me. I know this road well. The turns and dips and nooks I do with full intuition without a thought of what lies ahead. This is my stomping ground, my home.

Look at all the mist, the oldest yells from the back. It’ like we are driving through a cloud. But I think it’s just sea mist. Actually I think it’s a low hanging cloud.

Sometimes our clouds hang low. That’s just the way it is somedays, I guess.

Earlier my daughter told me she wanted to kill me.

It had something to do with a last minute amateur move of mine. I changed plans that went from going to a museum to heading to the beach. The rain dried up in a moment and dramatically leant way to that crystaline pacific sun. I saw the chance to get us all out in it. It’s been a dreary chilly week, but kids don’t like plan changes.

Really?

Yes.

Well, how would you like to do it?

WITH A KNIFE LIKE THE SEAL ROMEO AND JULIET. IN THE HEART.

Kids say the darndest things.

Where do I go from here? I am hesitant to share any of this because really she is like the snaggy graggy rough and tough road I am on. It’s only a reflection of the glossy water and expressed in it’s own unique way, that can be scary but raw and reveling. But with intuition and attention, it’s very easy to maneuver, it becomes joyful to cruise, it becomes home. And today her cloud hung low and i could see it in her eyes.

I am sensitive to my daughter. Would she really want me talking about this, her words exposed? No. And I am the Years Worst Mother for even writing about this. But I think it’s important. She’s 7. She’s about as energetically hormonal as my menopausal sister and her teenage daughter combined. The Seven year changed is Monumental. It’s a rite of passage, coming into one’s body, saying goodbye to the mystical world she once lived in and fully recognizing her part in this Earth tribe, this family, and she has her own karma here, her own work to do. It’s not easy growing up. Or becoming fully human.

As always I want to share the more intimate moments of parenting and often those aren’t just cute chubby baby legs in sparkly silver shoes and the fun gathering mushrooms in the woods. It’s not just seeing past my messy house and the sleepless nights and the all toast meals. The most poignant parenting breakthroughs i have had are in the most painful times, when I am sure I am fucking my child all up. When there is no doubt she came her with her great uncle Irving’s “nervous” issues. When I look in her eyes and I see longing, when I feel my own heart and I feel despair. Here is my black hole. I enter and I become boundless. It is my School and I get vacuumed to the front of the class. My child is my teacher and soul growth she offers when she opens up her anger to me, challenges me to take it and watches exactly what I will do with it.

I was taken back by these words. I was. I didn’t want to hear them like this. She sounded very sincere in her death threat. My heart was pained. I ached. And in all honestly I wanted to yell in her little face,” HOW DARE YOU!!!!” My eyes filled with tears. And I was pissed {moon blood also due any moment}. I gave this kid life and she tells me she wants to KILL ME? I began the whole lecture calmly on how we JUST CANT SAY THOSE KINDS OF THINGS TO PEOPLE {well sure we can} She shut down because she has a built in bullshit detector. . And then I went into trying to validate her feelings but it was completely, utterly inauthentic because I was hurt and confused and angry and I saw nothing valid at the moment. She glared at me. And so I gave myself a Mama Time Out. I went outside and sat on my porch while all 3 kids stood at the window looking out at my sobbing “will she come back? is going to leave? mama, come back in” MAAAAAMAAAAA I counted to seven. Breathing in and out. Went inside and told them all to get their boots and jackets on. We were going to the beach. Mama Nature needs to sooth us all.

I wasn’t going to talk about it with her. I knew how she felt. We all do. We all say things that that suck and we say them to people we love. It’s part of the ride, I suppose. And with each turn we try harder to be kind. I decided not to give it any attention. No reaction. My only response was to proceed like I always try to; with love and attention. We loaded in the car. She offered to carry the backpack down the trail. I thanked her for her offer and took her up on it.

Through puddles and over bridges, down rocky rooted hills and across railroad tracks. This is Clayton Beach, where we head when the aches need a roll out and our soul’s grime needs a bit of a cleanse. We come to get washed fresh through the forest moss and the salt air and the bald eagle’s cry. It’s where we play on sand hills and drag logs to make forts. It’s where I do 10 Sun Salutations in a row facing the sea and don’t give a damn that sand will occupy every crevice of my body when I am done.

She takes my hand and we walk through the last bit of the forest before the expansive light of water greets us at the trails end.

I miss Thunder. I really miss Thunder, Mama. He was my best dog. He was so nice.

It’s not your time. I squeeze her hand. It’s coming full circle. I see it now.

I wish….I just wish I was good at…..

She jumps in a puddle.

These new boots are good. I just wish I could be better at something. I just not good at acting right, Mama.

You’re fine, sweetie. You’re just fine.

No I’m not.

I squat down and hug her. You are. You’re perfect. And I love you. No matter what.

And she smiles that smile. The one that I woke up looking down at me at the crack of dawn every morning from month 5 to month 9. That smile that shines through her low hanging clouds and smooths out her angry coastline. And I can see. She’s no less than rough and tough and no more than a calming sea. And all she needs is my love. Love is all she needs.

She walked up the steps.

This is a nice house, mama. Let’s just go here.

Well, baby, it’s not our house, so let’s just keep walking.

Her stares investigate my intestines they go so deep. I can feel her eyes in my gut.

But, it’s nice and I like it, I want to play on the grass.

We don’t know these people and I am sure they are nice but it’s there grass.

No it’s not! It’s Mama Earth’s grass. It’s her HAIR!

She storms away from me. Plops down on the grass. Pretends to sleep.

And so there it is. I suppose. All of it in a nutshell. Who do we think we are? What do we really own?

There is no mistaking it. This house is ready to crack with solid light beams, the sun mixed with lime green exterior paint nearly blinded me as we went on our afternoon walk. It’s standard to look through the clouds for the sun. But today I looked through the sun to find the slicing gray of sky. Indeed our world is turned upside down. Inside out. It’s about time. Something’s going to shake us up, if it’s not us, then who? What?

I feel like there is an elephant in the room. A large one that farts and spews and does whatever an elephant likes to do. And yet I look the other way. I’m not sure what I’m suppose to say but it think it goes something like this:

WAKE THE FUCK UP.

Not you. ME.

Connection is love. Love is connection. Every time someone pisses me off I look at them like they are my newborn baby in my arms. This is my new practice. To open my heart to every single person I encounter like I did when I pulled my children from my insides to my chest. I really suck at it. I do. But I refuse to stop trying. Because when I get it, it’s good. it’s so good. Right when I am about to tell my man he’s an asshole, I see his baby face, new and fresh. And. I just. Can’t. Do anything but love.

How can the world be a bad place if we all did that? If we all loved like the mother within hours of birthing their child? What we be like then? What could it look like?

Maybe I’d finally feel at home.

Love is our home. It has no mortgage or late fees. It has no design or expiration date. It’s always organic and free-range and biodynamic. It’s so warm it doesn’t even need a throw rug or a fireplace. You don’t even have to clean it! Just breath into it. Open it. Connect to it. Words, I know, but subtle actions behind each one. Allow Love.

I’ve put a ton of crap between me and love. It’s like I’m on one end of the dance floor. Love’s on the other. The crowd is shoulder to shoulder. I spend most of the night trying to catch the eyes of everything else. Then I panic because it might be last call. And I push through the crowd. Stripping down to nothing as I bump through The Past, and The Future. I narrow my eyes at Anger and Abandonment and shove past I flick my smoke at Judgement and mouth “Sucker”. I’m pretty sure Devo is playing in the background. I’m so ready to pounce on love and throw down a nice dance floor straddle. People tell me and love to go get a room, but we want everyone else to see.

My girls really like to take photos. I have 8,000 photos on my Iphone. I really like this one Mia took the other day, looking over my shoulder while I was widdling away time on some social networking site you may or may not have heard of called Facebook. You know the one?

Hard drives of talent. Just all stored up and stocked away. An akasha record of sorts? Where all our gifts are locked up and stored so that we can’t crash with them? Only to be unlocked and used until we are ready?

Don’t you think it’s time?

It’s your hard drive. It’s your talent. There has never been a better time to live what you came here for. It’s not mistake you walk on this Earth. It’s no mistake you are here right now. Please show me what you do! And do it all with the same love as a mother who sees her baby emerge from her body. Do it with the love you want to straddle all drunk and sweaty on the dance floor. Do it somehow, please.

I need that inspiration. We all do.

when we take it all back to the root we take it back to the source, the opening, the place that taps the life in and creates the full bloom.

i am drawn to the roots of all things. of music. words. fashion. food. the place where it began, the soft spot that allowed the spark to ignite the life of itself. the root of anything is a desire to grow, to become, to manifest, create, to survive. from that point on we evolve into the tip of the flower petal, the drop of dew on the leave, the essence of oil, the steamed greens on the place, the digital sounds on the radio. we can become anything from the root; with proper inspiration, the root allows immortality.

my husband always says, “you just can’t play soundboy killers without knowing the real rock.”

all the things i love, to do to eat to see to hear to read to watch, i want to travel and follow their roots, to understand the place of birth, and beyond that the place of conception. the how and the why and the journey.

one of the most beautiful thing about on-line community is the possibility to create a real relationship, a human connection. i have ben lucky. this blog has not only created true friendships for me, the kind where we hold hands and watch our kids play together, it has also created a beautiful gathering of artisans. i have been blessed and honored over and over again to be gifted to wear the beauty these souls in many forms (although jewels are my favorite!)

Ila Blu Designs is the creation of my dear friend Stephanie who manifests and embues magic within each piece of her jewelry while living on The Rock (Jamaica) her love and her two amazing children. Many of her adornments are rooted from found pieces on her land and beyond and each one catch that island vibe intensely; the freedom and mysticism of Jamaica, the paradox of the Island of bounty and hunger, sparcity and abundance. When I look at her pieces I feel the sea and the rolling green mountains, i feel the wet air and the mid-afternoon rain shower. i taste that amazing fruit which i devoured every morning for breakfast. i smell the Herb. i feel bare feet against hot sand. and mostly i see her, her beauty and love for the roots, the place we draw in the manifestations for we need for our path in life. The place where our food feeds us.

Stephanie has been creating jewelry which she imbues YOU in each peace. Her goal is for people to wear their intentions, as an “adornment intuitive” it’s important to her that you feel yourself within each piece she handcrafts.

She works with mixed matierials and says…..”My repertoire is expansive and materials of choice include precious metals, crystals, semi-precious stones, beads, wood, faux pearl, and glass in combination with unique botanical and found object discoveries. I am fascinated with the differences and similarities between ancient and contemporary design and explore this concept through jewelry”.

Adornment Intuitive Indeed. I opened my mail a couple months ago and found this……

made with upcycled copper, resin treated bezel and swarvoski pearl, my entire body got the shivers when i held in my hands. for feeling so loved. and SEEN. I felt known by her, by the women who lived opposite me but our hearts pump the same life force.

the flip side of the pendant has the word LIFE on it…..but my camera is busted, so you can just imagine. ROOT. LIFE. yes. my intentions, who i am, where i will always be. DIVINE FEMININE. and there even is a sprinkle of the most magical glitter….so subtly…..she knows me well.

Please visit Stephanie’s beautiful blog (somethingblu.wordpress.com) where she writes about Creation, Life, Livity on the Island of Jamaica. When I need INSPIRATION, her blog is the first I go to. The Island colors and photos, her food, and her amazing placements of words, like she beads them on to the string, strong, pure, open. Intention. Alive. She is the embodiment of Joy. And I say that with the most true heart.

Visit her website www.ilablu.com……and allow her to cast the magic within the charm….for you…..a mantra for your body.

More Life. More Love. More I-nity.