at home with piano, jewel, bunk beds, and a cup of chamomile tea.

hello readers. friends. peace monkeys.

i've been wanting to update for a while. last thursday was beautiful. before i left denton with my car packed tight with yarn and records, i sat with a handful of my friends and ate some delicious food and felt at home already. i think you are all so beautiful and amazing.

so i'm living with my parents again. i really like it so far. i sleep three feet from an old piano where i am learning beethoven's moonlight sonata and can bang the keys late into the night. i guess i don't really do too much banging though... its a soft song so far. I sleep in a bunk bed that I have decorated with tapestries and pillows. I'm about to curl up in my reading nook to write Monet a letter and read a short story. I'm sitting in the "game room" of my childhood, drinking chamomile tea, writing this blog, and feeling like i lost the ability to express myself.

one thing i love about this arrangement is that i get to have sleepovers when in denton. so... if anyone is up for a house guest, let me know. we can cook food and remember how happy we are to have been apart of each others lives.

shit

where did i go?

the absolute

complete acceptance of what has come and what is to come. no animosity towards any person who has ever entered my life, but complete love and acceptance and understanding. the realization that we all do the best that we can do. the eagerness to learn everything that my brain can absorb. this explosive excitement to live as beautifully and as freely as possible with forgiveness and understanding at the forefront of my heart. this lasting desire for exploration. the certainty that my childish wonder will never fade.

the cloud has passed. I have felt this way since 7:20 yesterday evening when i got off of work early and watched the sun go down.

on an important note

today marks my 10th menstruation anniversary. That is right... September 4th, 1998 I started my period.

in good condition

like a pearl in slippery hands, every sweet memory i grasp slips away with this sea of bitterness inside me. pumping steadily through me is a constant reminder of what we lost. i hate it. this isn't me. it is resentment guiding my every breath, watching carefully over me as i try to struggle free. i'm sure it will fade. its current will die down and my gems will once again be secure.

then i'll head west.

i'll climb up that shapely rock in Utah where we watched the sun set behind the snow capped mountains.
or i'll dig through the leaves at the base of those two redwood trees where I napped for hours
i'll scoot to the edge of that isolated canyon where the rattlers never rest.
maybe i'll put on harvest and search through the canadian flatlands.
or i'll stare up to those mountain dwelling glaciers that disappear in the winter's fog.
i'll sift my way though that rain forest, which keeps those pacific waters company.
i'll even check that misty cow pasture in the rolling hills of Idaho

then i'll remember to head south again to new mexico. i'll drive down that bumpy dirt road in those hidden mountains. i'll travel past that busted up old van, and i'll make way down our car made path where those bright white trees meet the pine.
there my heart will be. just as i left it.
sitting by the campfire.

hello light. life. sparkling windows and chicken and rice

i'm housesitting in bartonville right now. My old beloved friend, canine partner in crime, Kodi, is passing away. I am taking care of him as his pounds shed away and his limbs grow unsteady. I carry him around the house with me, to the front yard, and tuck him into his doggie bed to feed him crushed ice, freshly sliced turkey, boiled chicken with brown rice, and handful of vegetables. my sweet comrade, sophie's male equivalent, i will miss you when you finally wander.

"your pain the the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding. even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain. and could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy. and you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields. and you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief." -Khalil Gibran

today at hilltop montessori school

there are times when everything builds up so fast. nothing will take its own shape. everything is rigid and painful. gathering the will to read a book or write a poem or sleep or breathe or walk or cry or reach out seems impossible. it becomes too much. it comes from no where. though it is one of the most terrifying states,it does not gain a response. it gains my complete inability to respond.

me as mass, a vast expansion of nothingness, full of lazy confusion and inability. inability to perceive. inability to cope. inability to feel. inability to breathe. truly.

as i lie spiritually motionless, a friend claps her hands around my senses and giggles to her beat. as suddenly as I was barred, those sharp reverberating sparks break through layers of inability as if it were as easy as popping a bubble, and then she points in me at my illuminated seed of possibility.

i let life take its form, allowing its abundance to pull me up. i stand. shaky, but able. breathing, i bless those children's cubbies with a a heart full of sincerity and longing.