Hardwired

"Hardwired"
*a small glimpse into the troubled times in the maddening love of family. I wrote this when my daughter was continuously missing me and acting out again and again and I was heartbroken*

"Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away"

And then yesterday they came back with a blistering burn in my belly
scorched my teeth and I was seething with a madness
unbelievable and shameful
I kept to myself as to word them... to put a voice to something so unstoppable
might have stopped it
the finality of words
flung out viciously
as I flung out my feet and kicked like a sobbing child at the dollhouse that was my inadequacies
I heard you never really outgrow your actions as a child.
They are hardwired
and
inate
I was a horrible child
(so I hear)
I can't really remember
just the visions I get when I relate my who-I-am-now
with the story of who-I-was-then
the girl with the curl
when she was good .. you know the rest
I was horrid.
I am seeing this in my progeny
I understand what it is to love so deeply this perfect being
and to see who I was with my own eyes
how do you resent yourself
how do you stop the sensitivity when you want to reach out in understanding
and instead rend your words with venom
you want to say I know baby just hold my hand
but when she hits you in the head
when you can't reason
when logic is dead
the best thing to do is to walk
and kick at things instead of kicking at those you love
like you can't love yourself
so some words were spent in the air
some words landed brazenly and wounded my little bird
words like
I want to leave
I can't do this
I hate that you are like this
but I am the adult, not hardwired, but hard-earned
learned and faded
and worn
and tired
my eyes focus on the sweetness that looks up at me
after her stormy sea
her tempest turns into a sharp piercing in my heart
that had no armour to begin with
and her hand reaches tenderly up to cup
my cheek as if it is hers
and not separated by years and tears
this rendering of all my great gory bits
my stupid guilt trips
and her sweetness rips
at my body
like the bruises I amassed
after her thrown book took a pass
at my face
these bruises will fade and her actions are made
long after the tempers have vanished
leaving this dull ache in place
and my spirit feels so famished
If she knew the struggle I walk
if she knew what I overcome to be her rock
maybe she could undo those tendancies
to be temper crazed and mad
to put a voice to something so bad
that it rocks my very being
it negates all the goodness I was seeing
so when I say
I want to go away
I mean it
God help me I mean it.
I love her enough to spare her my feeble attempts
at righteousness
she means more to me than
choked back apologies and one sided steep hills
that go on indefinately
and my mismatched shoes navigating unseen holes
I am always falling
and she needs more than I can provide

But then I look inside
and though I see I mean it
those heart-vicing realities
there is no one who could
walk this path with such knowledge
so we falter together and go on with these shoes
the same ones worn by another
by my mother
the fairy tales told were half truths and faded
(and certainly, growth with me would feel a little jaded)
My eyes have lost their edge today
the verve just up and went away
the reality is flippant
and when the tide comes in again
maybe I will have lost more reserve
But still I will serve
you can't divorce yourself of what you really really want
so much you can't see clearly
beyond the soaked cheeks
and the cloth you weep into
as you envision life beyond feeling
as you envision the peace it would be to shut it off
shut it off
shut it off
when it is gone
what greets you?
What calls you mommy and meets you?
What sparkling laughter defeats you?
oh I am dangerous to myself
putty and marshmallow soft
to those who I have lost
in my belly
in the deepest parts of my motherhood
in the darkest depths of my something good
I am lost to being understood
and resign myself to standing here
resisting fear
Just staying here
and being near
and seeing clear
for a brief moment before the next wave hits
and I am thrown off by a fit
that didn't come from me
but came from me
and to write it so dispassionately
so indescriminately
still it will be
my own fit thrown in caution
with fingers and not true words
that can bite the tender skin of one so young
who has only just begun
to know the ways
and to shine her own rays
like a Sun
*or a daughter*
of one
who knows
.................

I'd like some milk with that please.

I'm a granola girl. I admit this healthily and happily.
If I must be labeled, this one feels better than pre-shrunk cotton. I am crunchy.
I think it's because my name is Opal. I think it is because I was conceived at a cottage with no running water and outhouses, and a full beautiful expanse of sky opening like a painting over the umbrella of trees. But that is too poetic. Maybe it's because I am an artist.
I generally don't love labels, but I realize they are necessary sometimes.

When my opinions form, they come from my belly. Not the leftover jiggly bits, but the inner one. I ask myself if this sits well. Instinct is where most of my ideologies come from. Instinct, logic, kindness, observations.
If I take the 'socialness' away.. if I become a simple cave-mama, if I take away cars and cities and neighbours who watch..... what works for me...

If I were in my cave, and my baby was needing to be born, would I make a quiet, nice soft nest and have the things that comfort me around? Would I pant and centre myself however I had to, get comfortable.. get vertical.. swing and rock my hips... would nature tell me to do this? Would I listen to the instinct? I would be more in touch with instinct at that moment than ever before or again. My body, a tunnel of muscle and potent hormones would lead me.
In the afterglow of birthing, with my baby in my arms, would my baby seek out sustenance from my breasts, would we cuddle closely together and get to know each other... would we doze off together after this long journey we've been on. We both need to heal and learn each other.... would I keep this new most intense love of my life, the one I created and birthed, the one who depends wholeheartedly on me for its survival...by my side to care for? Would I make him his own bed in another cave, far away from my warmth, food and comfort?
Would I let this being whom I housed in my body, cry because he was demanding something of me, and I had other concerns? Crying is the only thing babies can do with conviction.. they can't explain things. Just as we can't explain that they 'need their independence'.. or they'll 'never leave your side'... We are so concerned that they will need us too much that we force them out too soon, to fit into our preconceived culturally driven notions...and then they don't have the confidence to know we will be there, because when they have called, we've taught them to self soothe.. which is a valuable thing, but when prematurely introduced ( for fear or societal intervention) normal healthy and needed bonding cues might be compromised. Will we work it out? Sure. You'd never give up on your child....But did it need to be that way? Not exactly. Of course this is a generalization. But it is also an observation. If we take all the interventions and 'well meaning' people or so called experts away and listen to the real expert... you and your baby... the answer will invariably be there, even though we ignore it more often than not. We are still animals. Educated, Civilized, Social animals, but animals nonetheless.
There is more kindness in what I am writing. I am aware that a sensitive person might read that I am insulting their parenting styles, when what I am doing is explaining how I came about my own. My convictions come from nature's call.
I shave my armpits, ( in fact, I pretty much only like the kind that grows out of my head) I love modern conveniences, I do have a consciousness about my life... But I find the most logical answers are almost always, without exception.. the simplest ones.
Babyhood happens so quickly.
I know it is necessary to have schedules in this socio political climate. But. Understand that babies, these primitive humans, are simple and won't understand the things that we understand. That is what makes them incredible. Their little potential-filled brains... it happens so fast. They grow. Before you know it, they grow out of all the limitations we place on them, and the worries we had about them, and their naptimes/foodtimes/sleeping with mommy/in their own crib/co dependency/milestones... the things that absorb us in the minutiae of our lives.... they resolve. The things that drove us crazy with wanting a manual.. they disappear. What comes in their wake is the realization that you could've hugged them more. Because they will never be that baby-sweet child again. So I say "More lap time!"
"more kisses"
"more naps together"
"more crazy raspberries"
"more listening to that internal compass, it will never steer me wrong"

Having been on this parenthood trip a few times now, I know it goes too fast. I am so imperfect, but I don't think the ways I am imperfect will leave lasting scars. They will look back at me as this crazy mommy who doesn't know what she wants to be when she grows up. She yells sometimes, but is quick to apologize, she makes us eat vegetables, but will follow it up with ice cream...She'll make mistakes and miss deadlines, but will make it up to them with integrity and genuine love. I know we'll go through our share of scrapes and scraps.. I certainly know I will with my daughter.... but I am honoured to have the privilege of growing with these amazing people. I made them! My best work.
I am a granola girl who masquerades as a grown up masquerading as a granola girl.
I am a superhero. "The Galactic Lactator."

Old Poetry

"This Life Happens"

This life happens.

observing like an alien

with dispassionate detatchment

the events of my life

the changing cycles I choose

but I really only listen to the signs.

When to take action...

I have learned forcing gives me a headspace that resembles cottage cheese

and you can't really force, just push something a little....

and see the momentum

and watch in wonder

as the movement takes you under

and above and all around

and the sound of a familiar voice leaves you little choice

but to embrace the logic

because there are no winners

there are only players

and logic tells you that sometimes the underdog wins

logic tells me

there are too many layers

to make anything like sense

icing clad layers. cherry coated.

Life happens, even if you blink.. but nothing really sneaks up and in

you see it coming but can see the signs

as logic talking you down from a ledge

even if you think it is fantasy

you can't delude reality

you can't fly in life, wings chapped, stripped and raw

but you can adapt and see the wonder in the day

even when the words never really go away

they are dormant but sneak in when it was a solid thing

hibernating bears always wake up in the spring

wings mend themselves if they aren't clipped

to bring

new lessons when they are folded against

bodies with the crisp scent of the air strirring

and purring in their chest

putting logic again to rest

and whirring like a sky dancer who remembered her laces

and how to tie them

against thieves and clouds

for long hard flights

and remembered faces

My Something Good

I might not understand
The depth and the desire
But I will latch onto it
Like your living fire
And try not to analyze the pain
That comes before the loving
That letting go feeling
So pure and revealing
You make it so easy
I like to rile you up a bit
Like nothing’s worth working for unless it’s imperfect
And you are such a ‘perfect’ mate
That fate gifted me with
And of course, I never feel deserving
So I mess up
Even if it’s inside, it’s there
And so sometimes I push you away
Though you understand, finally, my say
sometimes comes from the parts that don’t matter
But the parts that do are vocal too
Only sometimes not directly at you
They are there when I glance at your lap
When I give that ass a playful slap
When I thank you for your clarity
Even though I only wanted to talk, you see
But you fix it, like my personal carpenter
Nailing in my tacks with tact
Might as well be crucified,
you know I’ll give some back
I just know what I lack
Better than anyone can tell me
So I stop the diatribe
The lessons and woman’s ability
Enough so you’ll just look at me
And see my apology
Clearly in my eyes
And I take your hand,
Woman to man
We’ve been through it before
I will kiss those pillow lips
The same ones for all these years
And my unmatched tears
will still flow,
Even though I know
You are forever
And even more
If it is within, then it is without
And I am without so much
Your eternal optimism makes me grateful
That mine is only surface but I have yours to feed from
So the next time I go away
Inside
You know you don’t have to hide
I know you’ll stay
No matter how many times I go away
That is durability
And stability
My moon is in tranquility
When this arrangement is met and understood
Yes, you are my something good.

* my Capricorn Moon in the sixth house take on romance with another Capricorn Moon*

A Different Kind of Sleeping

Mood-Writing is stale and breastmilk makes the mind mushy
Like a creamed batter, piped with exhaustion icing
Thighs still soft (STILL!) but grateful to hold that sweet smelling baby
That possibility in bold with a name you adore
that Godly creation you couldn’t have dreamed of more....
Motherhood might be common but it’s not the peasant-poor kind
It is rich and delicious it is filling (even if it is with cake batter)
it is generous and messy it is tasty and sad and guilty and so far reaching I might as well change my name with each new name I create.
I left myself out by the sliding door last year, and the train happily picked up speed
Happily- And I mean it
I need
This is greedy in my soul beyond sex or identity
It changes more than Socks and bums
It changes more than dads or mums
It changes more than woe is me tributes to youth
my self sacrificing ardour my lessons my cries for more
I cry for her
Though she knew what it was to house lives to hold them and love them... she didn’t allow the loss of self to define her.. she struggled and gasped for air instead of sliding
Sliding slick and slippery underneath the gathering force of the current and the vessels to bump her no more weeds caressing and grabbing no more caring about them or what that means or who she is or was
A different kind of sleeping
In my babies’ lives I am a beauty queen in mascara less eyes
I am a matador who slays dishes and broccoli
I screw up I miss deadlines I never have enough time I am a relentless grasshopper trying to wear an ant’s pants (I paint them on while I dance)
I still have trouble sleeping
But in my sleepless parade there is no charade
No coveting blade of artifice
It is a divine grace a glad worship
It doesn’t matter who I was
It matters who I am
And what I make
NOW
I am a mad diva
an operatic screamer a secret whisperer a love maker a guilt taker
I am mom
No longer a faker.
This dream is forever and I hope to never wake up.
( And I always sleep through the alarm)

A Question of Honesty

Honesty.

I remember a lesson in grade school about honesty.

“Should you always tell the truth?”

We all answered obediently, variations of “Oh yes” with different levels of emphatically droned choreography.

Then the teacher challenged us with “What if the truth will hurt someone? Is it okay to lie?”

Our growing brains were suddenly stacked with new truths, lying on top of the old ones, layering our psyches with concepts and shades of grey we hadn’t the resources to consider before.

Ahhhhhhhh.

Some people take this concept of truth beyond reason.

My aunt, who gossips beyond gossip…. If you call her on it, she will say defensively... “I am only telling the truth.”

My mother would tell her truths to anyone.
Grocery clerks everywhere, with a spare set of ears, and an (obvious to anyone but her) feigned interest, would listen as she told them intimate details of her bills, operation, children, stance on tomatoes… unreal, the amount of details she’d get into in the small time it took (which she always made longer) to exchange goods for funds on a conveyor belt. It was embarrassing yet prideful. No one can out-talk her… no one is sweeter in nature, either, so you tolerate her truths, knowing they belong to her like a mewling kitten’s coat. And it is just as threatening.

There are those armchair psychologists who diagnose you based on their truths, based upon something they read last week in Chatelaine. No matter how much your own story differs from the one they’d heard… Oh, they know. They simply know. “It’s like this,” “Let me tell you,” they’ll say.

Okay.

So my truths shift. They change. I consider honesty an inherent trait in everyone, which makes me naïve. I’m cool with that. I’d rather be hopeful as I go through my every day than jaded in new situations. I’d never learn everything if I thought I knew it all.

Being honest doesn’t mean full disclosure. Some things are mysteries for a reason. If everyone intimate in my life knew the swings between angst, pity, love, hate I ply myself with during each moment of my unfolding life, they probably wouldn’t be my loved ones. Run screaming for the hills, they would.

As I revisit this piece, with my fuzzy headed baby-child on my lap, I realize more potently than I had before, the meaning of honesty.

Honesty doesn’t mean you are chained to your ideologies or the karma police will wrap your wrists in leather and flail you with your missed opportunities forever and ever so help you Dgog….
It is an inner knowing. It must sit well in your solar plexus and between your own teeth. If you are chewing on your honesty long after you should’ve digested it, then perhaps you need to re-consider your truths and let them evolve. And by the power of Greyskull, please forgive yourself your old truths! You grow for a reason, you know! Just accept it and move on.
Do a dance on that skin you shed so long ago, those mistakes were a part of you that evolved beyond the margins that were, and you can look at it with a stoic peace, knowing they led you to this state, this truth, this moment.

The other day, my daughter noticed the deep and angry arm welts of a ‘cutter’… it was obvious to my husband and me and our jaded brains, and something that isn’t really explainable in polite (or loud seven year old's) conversation. Especially when said ‘cutter’ is scissor length away from hubby’s split ends and consequently, head. ( The irony of a cutter, cutting hair, was not lost on me.)

Our lovely fair headed child said loudly..”Ooooh, look at her arms! Poor girl!”

“Okay,” I shushed her quickly.”I know… that’s not something we should talk about.”

And should we? I explained, later on the way home that some people for some reason I don’t understand, feel like cutting their own skin and wounding themselves. It isn’t something that feels right to talk about or point out… But ( I told her) That lady should have talked to someone way before she decided she had to hurt herself.

Her truths are sad. I want to cuddle up her inner child and shush away the pain that caused such deep scars. Some are on the inside, but I’ll be damned if my sweet little lady should ever feel the need to explore those sorts of truths. The honesty of children had me considering polite social positions. The consequence of this was a conversation about how to censor her observations in order to make people feel okay about being themselves, in all their layers…. What is proper to discuss, and at what volume. At least I can cuddle my little woman and make sure I have a say in how she is comfortable. I am honoured to have the privilege to raise her, even if I muck it up a wee bit.

I am generally a little too honest. A little too loud. A little too proud. I would make an excellent gay man.

I’m here, I’m steer(-ing my own ship)
Get used to it.

The Origins of Originality

I've always been a bit of a word-flirt
I love the way they cascade and play.
When I thought ...."Hey, let's start a blog, I need to write more, so this is a way to uncork the muse..." I wondered what I should call it. I half wrote/envisioned lucidly a book of suggestive suggestions, based on word play and living free, and titled it 'Essential Sensuality" and the name has always tickled me. It was years ago, but it is apt.

Sensuality is truly in everything. It is not sexuality, per se.. it is the undercurrent of electricity, the shared smile, the shared thoughts the shared ideas the everything in the middle of anything, the worthwhile bargaining for the smile you bring to the day as you wake in it. The smile that awakens you as you bring in the day..... it is just there. It just is.
It is the gladness that permeates.
It is the scent reminder in the air.
It is the grass that is green and the feeling of being true and you.

So I say hello and welcome.
Do not expect anything and everything will surprise you!