life happens

Do we owe apologies when life happens? My heart โ™ฅ๏ธ is discombobulated at the moment. I miss you dear readers and i made a brief appearance this morning after a welcome disappearance from the world. A friend and i made away to the wooded hills of Brown County, in my expedient retreat from the hustle and bustle of moving. And i stopped to breath. And a few words made it to the surface, popped and left stains on paper. I shared them with you from the encouragement of another. Thank you for reading.

death of an era

I have not been able to read any of your blogs and i want to. I desperately feel i owe you that curtesy and i cannot fulfill that endeavor. I want to be able to think, write and paint. But i cannot. I want to reach out, touch and exchange smiles. But i cannot. I want to scream, be heard and cry. But i cannot.

Life happens. But i am not.

I remain enclosed in self-protection from the chaos of realtor showings, movers approaching with boxes, tape and sharpies. I am spinning and not on tip-toe.

At the moment i remain confused. I do not profess to understand the complexities i am passing through. Your worlds are miles away and cannot be reached. My world is slipping from my hands.

my promise garden

These are moments to cherish. The labor of my hands have shown to say hello, one more time. And goodbye forever.

—-

I wrote a poem to a friend this past weekend. (See below.) I sent it off to him. He did not respond. Silence weighs heavy on my head. I do not understand his absence after sharing his desire to reciprocate. Another of his small deaths looming?

clipped wings
found the feathers

who wastes their life?
bundled in piles
yellowed-papers
faded ink scribbles

unable to decipher his path forward
white lady
entangles with her promises.

pressed tight

Depression. And it’s accomplice, anxiety, arrived today. On horseback.

Out of the blue and bare-naked. Desperate to scare me. Both hoping to seduce.

I had ran away once. Appears now it will be twice.

Glanced to the side. Saw the consequences coming from a ways. It had to be more than a mile.

It was the voices that trapped my imagination. I trembled.

They brought shovels. Dug me a grave. Knew how weak i was and their plans overcame.

I gave in to their demands. Was there ever a chance?

Remember, neither proposed. They married you without consent.

Some day i will wake up.

Unknown

Love me while i am here
or don’t love me at all.

As i, my song,
lives as breath

fluid as the river,
passed through and over.

Sing the path.
Walk the earth.

Vapors exist, retract,
birth the unknown.

As i, my song,
lived in breath. Depart.

Attending the Opera

โ€” Read on Fabric on the Daily Post

What are we willing to give up? What would i find behind your curtain as i swing it aside? Have you, will you, consider letting me know?

I wait. Anticipate. Is this a game eagerly played by two? Or only i?

Am i setting myself up for your opera. Life over as fast as it started. Slow. Drawn out misery. Ending with a cry of freedom!

A peek behind the madness of death exists behind every curtain. It matters not your fabric woven. The rapacious appetite for breath carries us along.

I do not plan to go anywhere. Neither behind your curtain. Or stand before it. I want to be your covering. Shield you from peering eyes.

Focus

Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.

Today I want to give up trying to stay focused. I never know what thoughts will travel through this mind. The path is never straight nor narrow these days. I live in a chaotic existence.

Besides, it seems no use to focus at this stage of the game. Time wise, i am at life’s climax. I hear people say its all down hill from here. But then i remember my deliberate intentions to go after life in 2018. There is a desperate need to walk off the mental weight of grief. Banish the suffocating lost dreams that mock me.

I spent last weekend at Lutheran Hills as a farewell to girlfriends i had met there 14 years earlier. A fall hike was being advertised at church that summer 2004. I picked up the brochure which sparked a burning desire to discover myself. I intuitively knew i needed this necessary journey and was ready to explore.

I packed my weekend bag that October evening and told my husband my plans the following morning. He was stunned but happy for me. He took our three kids for the weekend.

I had never ventured anywhere alone and showed up at Shedron Lodge knowing everyone was a stranger. This was my very first time away from family and i was 37.

At 37, years were passing me and i was lost. I had no handle on any of my emotions, my body or my heart. I was floundering. Drowning. I had a biting urge to change the trajectory of my steps and it was a blur. I was desperate still in suicidal ideation. Death seemed the answer.

This post is hindsight which clarifies the memories. The voices. I left Lutheran Hills this past Sunday feeling determined. Even if i am focused just a moment, that is one moment more to paint.

I have finished quite a bit in the last 6 years. I have my Bachelor’s degree. My children are accomplished adults, thriving and growing into their best selves. I will be moving to Boston this summer and starting the best years of my life. I will walk the 18- mile trek for AFSP in Philadelphia and then hope to hike parts of the Appalachian Trail. As well as work with the people who have not found their voice yet.

—–

The reasons i write are many. I never had words to express it until conversing with Ray. I know what sells. I write (and now paint) to stay sane and that is priceless.

I drag my heart through sand and launch my soul on eagleโ€™s wings for a purpose. To finalize this life and leave this earth finished with no missing pieces. With no regrets.

Happy writing, J๐Ÿ’™๐Ÿ•Š๐ŸŽถ๐ŸŽถ