I just had a fucking terrible, real, brutal revelation. I've judged my mom for her alcoholism my whole life. I've seen her as less than a whole person, stupid, weak,  not worthy of respect, love. She has done so much damage, caused so much pain. Weak. Lousy. Sleazy. Shitty. But I remember her being so much more when I was small. She didn't hide in the booze because she was weak and awful and didn't give a rats ass about her kids. she did it because she was sad. Because she felt pain. Because she was trying to survive the shitty things that happened to her. Because life hurt. Why the hell was I such a snooty bitch that I didn't have even an inkling of that before?

Mind you I'm recognizing this because in drunk and blissfully numb myself and watching freaking izombie. Wtf.

"the rollercoaster that God forgot to finish laying the track for"

FUCK how I love that right now. If I could rewind to say THANK YOU for GETTING me, I would.  If I could rewind to be that person again, in that time again, I would.  In a heartbeat.  Life just keeps going though.

Sometimes I really do wish I could at least direct the god damned train car a little.  At least.  Seriously.  We will all survive this, right?  I can deal with pain and suffering, but we have to keep on breathing.  I'm so scared she won't.  And if she doesn't, I won't.  Not because I'm being a whiny bitch.  Because my love for her, for them, is bigger than life, is more.

The submarines are clapping in the dark. Or maybe it's just my neighbor.

My mother is an alcoholic.  My grandfather was an alcoholic.  I wonder if his parent was an alcoholic too? His grandparent? Has this hell been passed on forever?


I don't drink.  Mostly.  But I'm an alcoholic too.  I know it plain as the nose on my face.  Plain as I know the sky is sometimes blue.  Mostly it's grey here, but that's just par for the course right?  I hate golf, but still it exists.

I've been thinking about therapy for a while now.  Here I am though.   I don't know why this is my therapy, why I can't talk to humans directly, though I suppose that's a genetic legacy to love too.

And yet even here, I censor.  What the fuck?

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

We have sprouts!

Starting a garden....

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.

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

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.