. It’s impossible to separate from the suffering of your loved ones, especially when grief so interrupts a person’s daily functions. Was I grieving, too? No, I was merely bearing witness. Yet I carry it as an ache in my body as though it happened to me.
Roar, love & light. BE love & light. Sprinkle that shit everywhere. Do love. Shine. You know how very precious the gift of time is. Don’t waste it. If you’re crazy about the boy, then go kiss and tell the boy. Take a shot. Why the hell not? #YOLO “Wear your scars like stardust” to quote my friend Amy Ferris, and remember the bar is high. Y
My mother and I have never gotten along. After two hours with her, I'm no longer a 58-year-old competent professional and loving wife and mother, but instead the resentful, angry teenaged daughter I once was
I’d have to be a shapeshifter, skinwalker, facedancer, changeling. A creature for whom metamorphosis is identity. I’d start every sentence as differently as possible, trying on language like shoes. How do I want to move today? I’m not satisfied that my own identity is accurate, so I collect more--writing is a place to do this less tragically than other places.
Sometimes a situation truly and honestly sucks and sometimes the worst thing you could ever imagine happening to you, happens to you. It doesn’t mean every moment of it isn’t beautiful. Take losing your mother, for instance. And not just her actual death, but the process of losing her both quickly and slowly at the same time.
Words like ‘manipulation’ and ‘discipline’ flash across my mind (residue from my spare-the-rod-spoil-the-child upbringing). I’m triggered by her anxious questions: what is love what is want what is care? She’s silent when I say, “I love you.” (But at least she doesn’t reply, “I don’t love you!” like years past.)
My weight fluctuates a lot— I’d say I gain and lose between 20 and 30 lbs. every year. I think there is a story my body is trying to tell. I think perhaps my body is storing too much pain at times.
