Sunday, November 27, 2011

From The Invitation

"It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring with your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty, even when it's not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes!".

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand alone in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back...."

-- Oriah

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Things change, and then they change and change and change.

Im struggling for work-life balance and failing, desperately, miserably, hopelessly. My job is good, the weight it demands is not.

I want to live on acres and acres. I want to build a simple meaningful home with my hands, with my mind, with my soul.

I want to plant a garden, preserve a harvest, sustain my family with fruits of my own labor, from my own dirt and clean flowing water.

I want my children to know hard work, rich soil, sunshine, mountains, peace, pure joy, themselves. I want them to lust for simplicity and goodness, not for commercialism.

I dont really think this is too much to ask. I just have to figure out how.

Monday, July 05, 2010

Made this one for Miss Tiffany, and loved it so much I made another just like it for Baby Molly :)

Sunday, March 07, 2010

Waves?

It's been a long time since I've written here. Lots going on, but nothing super interesting to read about I suppose. It's funny how life comes in waves. Some of them drive me to write, and others just drive me to live and breathe and do. That's the wave I've ridden this last year or 2 or 3. I'm alive though. Work is stressful and doesn't make me feel all that great. My girls are growing into amazing young women. I've been quilting, and I've been spending a lot of time with a crazy little mare named Logan. The quilting is creative and relaxing and mind numbing. Logan has trust issues, and she strikes out at people who try to help her. Sort of like me. She bit me yesterday, hard. I was pissed. My arm is bruised and nasty looking today, but life could be so much worse.

Monday, October 19, 2009

My throat feels raw and tight

I miss you. Making a place for myself, making time for my thoughts, my heart. I have to find some direction before I'm lost forever. Even progress doesn't seem to make much sense anymore.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Another late night in a pitch black room

4 months in this new house and I still feel like I'm in some strange
foreign place lying in bed at night. When will this feel like my room,
my space? When will this feel like home? Will this ever feel like
home? This house, these people, this situation, this life? Its odd
working so hard for this only to feel like its not really mine anyway.

Laying here in the dark with my sprained ankle wrapped in an ace
bandage, some reprieve from the torture device of a splint the doctor
gave me. Not being able to walk is hell. Living in a trilevel house
with no bathroom on the main floor is hell. Bruised armpits from the
stupid crutches are hell. Back to work tomorrow. Hell.


Saturday, March 28, 2009

Breathing

Straining my eyes to see through the pouring rain
In a metal box hurtling down the freeway at 75, but not 80
Crooked shirts and shoulders
Mix tapes in french
The warmth of his body next to mine
Sweet scissors stabbing at my sanity
That intoxicating scent spreads my heart so thin