Falling

I can't seem to differentiate my love for people, and the sky. 

To me they're both untouchable and surreal.

It's easy to get caught up in the darkness they posses.

Until you gain focus.

More time spent observing a particular section of sky, or person, the brighter they shine.

Little flecks of gold, silver, and cobalt blue. 

The longer you stare at this patch of sky, at this person's soul, your mind will produce more and more wonderful flecks of beauty. 

Beauty that makes a sky timeless, and love limitless.

This is the power of perception. 

Time spent falling in love with the stars.

Dodging bullets

The position of mercury in relation to Pluto in my natal chart explains a lot about my personal battle to communicate/relate to those closest to me. 

 (Portrait by Nadia Marek)

 

Often times my lens (perspective) feels like the only "correct" one, this mindset limits my ability to fully understand people I love.  

That has potential to do some serious damage. 

There are times however, when Jupiter transits points on my chart in such a way that I can access a channel of effortless communication or understanding(through written form) so easy in fact, I sometimes feel as though the message isn't truly mine.  

I stand back and observe the moment inspiration takes over, I can be in the middle of a project, or wake from a dead sleep, then suddenly I'm scribbling on a napkin, tapping away on my iPhone or flooding my blog like a crazy woman.

 

This is a very real trend. It wasn't until I started learning about planetary cycles that the seemingly random streaks of creative genius, became predictable. Perhaps I can harness this energy and create something useful, up until now it's all been notes/drafts. 

A few weeks ago I had a biopsy done on my right breast. For the better part of three days, I revisited details of the ultrasound/mammogram. 

"I don't know what it is, I can't figure you out." 

"Story of my life!" I laughed.

She smiled, and then got serious.

"Well since its been there a while, chances are it's not cancerous, but I don't like that it hurts and it's not like any kind of tissue I'm used to seeing. Better get it checked out."

I wasn't a stranger to this awful feeling, I'd had it checked out a few years prior and I was fine. Since then the lump grew and started hurting. 

One morning my daughter pushed up off my chest to sit up, after fighting back the urge to scream, "STOP!" I couldn't put it off any more. 

I immediately went into research mode, I use two browsers on my phone because flipping through the windows is ridiculously troublesome in split screen mode, and I have bigger fish to fry than sifting through countless articles/discussion forums. This personality trait can be explained by individuals who have Mercury conjunct Saturn in their natal chart. As I began jotting down dates that would be acceptable for surgery(should it come to that I was going to avoid any times I'd be prone to death) I realized I was sealing my fate. 

Quickly, I ripped my paper up and set the phone down. 

I can't do this again, get all dramatic and question the duration of my life, the impact this could have on our family, no, fuck that. 

And still... 

For someone who preaches a lot about positive thinking, I sure wasn't ready to skip off and ignore reality. I know tomorrow's never promised, but hell...I still want it to come. 

I found myself meditating more, kissing my kids, hugging my husband, and wondering how this would go. 

The following day, conversations with my passengers changed. If one complained about trivial shit, I paid less attention. Why waste time encouraging the victim role mentality? I sure as shit wasn't going to assume that role while questioning how long I'd have to raise our kids. 

I felt my heart beat more, every breath I took felt heavier. Meaningful. 

Every time I laughed, I felt the urge to cry. 

 

When will they call?

 

I was walking to my afternoon piece at Milwaukie Transit center, Bethany was on the phone.

"I just wanted you to know we got the results from your recent biopsy, everything's fine, it looks like more dense breast tissue." 

 

"You seriously just made my whole week, oh my God thank you! I'm sorry but I have to call my husband."

I could tell in his voice he felt relieved, and it was everything I could do to stop from skipping. Until I realized I'd just dodged a bullet. 

I skipped the rest of the way to my road relief.

Kallisti

There was a nervous energy to her, always fidgeting, tapping the wheel.
The kind of woman who woke from a dead sleep, three hours early.
Who anxiously browses missed connections for a flitter of inspiration.
History’s Bend. Love letters to ghosts. To angels.
Countless hours spent studying the stars, mythology, metaphysics, physics, trying to find a connection.

Just then a moment of true serenity envelopes her busy mind, a pause for beauty, a deep breath in.
An oasis in an empty parking lot.
In that moment, shoulders loosen, hands fall from face,
and focus shifts to grace surrounding, exhale.
Fixations in solving life’s mysteries fade, she looks around, smiles.
A silent humming floods her mind, it seems these moments never last long enough.

She checks her Facebook, watches Youtube, or types in her favorite astrology website.
Curiosity expands as eyes ingest more knowledge, filling an exhausted soul.

Why?

Is it Neptune? Jupiter? Pluto? What’s declination have to do with it? Or is it all of it?
An answer for her awkwardness, the hunger in her soul,
a quenchless thirst for knowledge.
Certain relief is just around the corner.

Or is it?

In matters of the heart, she’s less skilled.
Pushing those closest to their limits.
Overstepping boundaries.
Assuming hers, is the only truth with logic.
Until it crushes him.
Tears stream down her lover’s face, now truth seems less important.
What if this knot in the back of her throat never goes away? Or the fire in her belly?
What can she do when he’s got nothing left to say?
When he runs out of reasons to stay?

Her eyes get warm.

A moment returns, and as quickly as it arrives, off she goes.

Yellow lines and tire marks...

His name is Clayd.

He lives in a cream and yellow striped mobile home off of Sunderland, near the correctional facility on line 70 in Portland Oregon.

He has five cats that he treats like queens, I could tell he didn't often speak about the loneliness he'd feel without them.

I asked for their names, "Crazy legs, Baby mama, Shanty, Bruiser, and Princess." He smiled.

Normally I have about thirty minutes to hang out at Milwaukie Transit Center, plenty of time to grab a snack and use the restroom. Today I met up with a road supervisor and a passenger to discuss healthy boundaries, for example waiting in the same spot every week to take my photo, with or without my permission.

When all was said and done I'd have fourteen minutes to make it happen. Instinctively I located the closest restroom nearby that didn't require a key, because let's face it, I don't where the hell mine went.

ABC Chinese food, my trusty fall back from my first preference had failed me by closing an hour early. Looks like I'll be buying some spring rolls. This especially irritated me because I had twenty bucks until payday and I didn't want to spend five on take out, but I couldn't justify using their restroom without compensation.

When I arrived at Sunderland Clayd was sprawled out under a bus shelter in a Carhart Jacket and pants, I knew he was displaced by the look in his eyes as I pulled up smiling. A displaced heart lives for eye contact, a reminder that they're not invisible and there is a connection to the conventional world. A sense of belonging previously denied to them. Home.

The last I chanced the opportunity to learn someone's story, we shared a couple spring rolls. It was amazing and filled my heart with a feeling I can't describe with accuracy. The realization that we'd experienced a rare connection, warms my soul.

We discussed alternative options for upward mobility, the power of perception, and capitalism. In a new age sense, we totally vibed.

I'd dropped him off with the impression he was off to stay with a friend for the night.

My last trip out I picked him up in the middle of Columbia River Highway, he flagged me down and looked like he'd been walking for a while based off of how wet his jacket was. He asked me to grab a drink with him, his tone changed. I politely declined but I felt a completely different energy off of him and it honestly made me sad. I stepped back and listened to his statements. He was rambling on about finding another part that might fix his trailer, that maybe this one would work. As if he had found his wings. Initially I'd asked him what kept him from ditching the trailer and embracing a free lifestyle full of untraveled paths, he explained that he had cats to take care of.

Clayd helped me identify the one thing we've all been guilty of in this life experience, allowing others to serve as a hindrance to our ultimate happiness and expansion. Placing our personal power in the hands of another so they could fail and we could have someone to blame for our lack of bravery.


As I dropped him off to his trailer he shook my hand and stared deep into my eyes, all I saw looking back at me was a defeated spirit. He recognized that look and shifted his face away from mine.

"Don't forget about me okay?"

If only he knew how impossible that would be.

http://youtu.be/s6nB--66DtI

Opening up...

Borrowing an eight year old's mattress and floral sheets, can make even the strongest of character's question their decisions.

Shoving one of countless unfinished journals into the bottom of a hot pink Victoria's Secret bag, I started to wonder if I have the dumb.

At this point, I openly admit my faults, and chuckle at the chaos that is my life.
Every belief system I'd accepted to be true, questionable at best.

My daughter would tell you this stinks.
My son would update the current number of broken promises, to the decimal.
My husband would suggest I checked out a long time ago.

The truth is they're all right.

So, where have I gone?
Fifteen minutes down the road.

I currently wear two masks, crazy mommy and bus driver guru.
I struggle owning that last part, because I'm fairly certain a guru is a master of sorts.
Judging the proverbial flames licking the ceiling of our home life,
my shit is anything but together.

Let's get back to the mattress.

Often times I flitter around this city, observing people from all walks of life.
I take them to work, I take them to school, but secretly I take them to new levels of consciousness. It was only a matter of time before my own consciousness evolved, and with that comes major change.

I remember a fight I'd had with my husband months before I packed my bags, he was bent down leaning into the passenger side window.
"You talk about all these changes you're going through, but I honestly don't see anything different about you."
"Statements like that evoke change Brent, the problem is I'm growing at such a fast pace I'm terrified you wont be able to come with me."
"Come with you? Come with you where?!"
"Through life." I drove away in tears.

Fast forward three months, my children live with ghosts. My house is filled with a dark energy and I can't seem to shake the feeling that something has gone horribly wrong. This is not the way I envisioned my partnership. I want to share and laugh and play, but instead I'm hiding behind the keys of my iPhone and he's locked in a gaze on Youtube. We'd argued over everything, how to raise the children, how to put the silverware away, who's spending more money, who's making more money, but the truth is we were hiding from a painful truth. I'd woken up. He preferred the comfort of an organized life. Our paths were not headed in the same direction. Was that it for us then? I refuse to accept that.

Our children require so much attention, the amount of meditation I needed to overcome this storm was never going to happen. My partner was so comfortable he refused to move forward or expand his consciousness, while my consciousness had evolved, but not enough to tolerate our differences. I started scrolling craigslist. Room for rent. Single white female preferred. How about separated Native woman? Seemed easy enough. I tossed around ideas, counseling didn't seem viable considering we work opposite schedules and the times we had attended our therapist forgot our story. Perhaps it's time to rewrite ours. Many people assume separating from your partner is a pit stop on the way to divorce, the death of a marriage. For me it was about ending disillusionment, because we could achieve greatness, we have everything inside of us as people and all the love needed to kill it. I refuse to watch this fizzle out, to go down without a fight, to walk away. He had no idea it was coming.

October 30th, 2015. That was the day I found my roommate, an old friend from high school texted me. Apparently I'd answered her ad on craigslist. My whole spine tingled. I'd just found the sign I was on the right path, the only thing left to do was deliver a ball of pain to someone I've loved more than air for a damn near decade. That's all. Needless to say I waited. Initially I told him I would move as soon as I found a roommate, but the universe works faster than that and literally provided a safe comfortable place to rest my troubled mind as well as a ridiculously supportive mother to help afford such a large life decision. This is temporary, a time for reflection and care for my heart. I return to our home three-four days out of the week and I struggle every time I leave. Each residence holds part of my soul, I'm torn between self love and love of family.

Throughout this process I hope to construct a bridge, it must be firm, timeless, and carry me across the threshold of life.

If I had to...

What would I miss most?

It's not a secret this change of perspective has riddled our life with times of uncertainty, and while I'm sure my husband doesn't enjoy my honesty I don't know any other way to be, yet alone write.

So when the fight is over, and the silence floods our home, everything and everyone is still, my thoughts are exempt from this scenario of course...

I find myself wondering.

If shit hit the fan, and he couldn't stomach my crazy anymore...

What would I miss the most?

I'd miss the way our room smelled.

Maple syrup.

I'd miss the damp pillow next to mine.

I'd miss the way he'd give it to me straight. No soft edges. Truth. Hard.

I'd miss my best friend. Brittney spears song lyrics. Road trips to Redmond. A forgiving laugh.

His sixth sense of when to bounce the fuck out.

The way he talks in his sleep, yells. The way he's never remembered his dreams.

Asleep and awake.

The way he grabs me, and pulls me close. As if to breathe me in.

I'd miss his interruptions while I'm in deep thought. Over shit that makes me roll my eyes and sigh. So polar opposite.

Yet it seems we fit.

I'd miss everything about him. 

From the way he smells in the morning-syrup, and before bed-syrup, to his midday smell of burning pine.

My lumberjack.

I'd miss the way he pays no mind to my glamorous Walgreens run, the heavy sigh let out when I announce my intent to go tanning.

The declaration that he can't change no matter how much I have, and the frustration filling those words weighted in fear.

I'd miss the tear filled eyes.

The realization that we are on different paths.

I'd miss the dedication. The will to see it through. To watch our children grow. To find a way. To love.

I'd miss everything, but most of all I'd just miss him.

Loving a crazy bitch...

Elephantjournal.com posted an article titled, "Loving a Fearless Sensitive Warrior" it's heading picture featured a handsome man, crouched down like a tiger, ready to pounce. 

(Link posted below.)

To be honest, I was skeptical. However this was actually a well written article, seriously, I enjoyed every paragraph.

The topic they covered should be discussed AND embraced. Society has an unrealistic interpretation of the divine masculine in connection to gender roles, the stigma placed on the brave few who wander outside of the designated comfort box feels heavy, and who wants to carry a bullseye strapped to their back? 

Like a lone tortoise on a beach of seagulls.

Of course it didn't take long for my brain to sit and ponder this spiritual warrior's counterpart?

The other half to this fearless warrior, (assuming this particular warrior is heterosexual) where's his lady, what's she like? If he's so awe inspiring, what kind of heart captures this spirit stud?

I tried playing with strong feminine titles, ones accentuating a woman's sexuality, intellect, and determination. As I researched strong woman titles, each one had a negative connotation attached. Then my favorite song came blasting out of a passing car. Buck cherry just delivered my title.

It feels like the sensitive warrior gets a positive spin, but the same can't be said for a woman in touch with her spiritual side, apart from the crowd, falling in love with herself for once. 

She gets the charming name crazy bitch. 

At first it eats at her, she fights it, and then she does something totally different, she absorbs it. That's the only name they could come up with? 

The woman who isn't afraid to stand for truth or those she loves. For a soul who accepts all the beauty life has to offer, while simultaneously embracing the reality that we may only perceive fractions of what's truly out there, in a way some find contrary, well fuck it. 

Crazy bitch me.

When she hides alone in the women's room at work to meditate, crazy.

When she relishes in delightful conversation with a homeless man yet rejects the admiration of a well dressed asshole, bitch.

When she parks her car on the side of a desolate freeway to breath in the full moon, and they ask where she's been. She doesn't lie. And she's crazy.

It's not glamorous, but it's definitely a life worth living.

So how does one love a crazy bitch?

The same way you love the ocean.

She'll come in waves, emotions run deep. Her soul comes crashing in, powerful and alarming. At first you may stumble and fall, caught off guard by the power her love possesses, but if you fall back and observe from the shoreline you'll never adjust to her temperament. Eventually you'll grow weary from running. 

You must dive deep. Run to her. Jump in.

Appreciate the energy she generates, the fluidity in her movement, the way she loves the moon. Don't try to change what comes so natural, marvel at her flaws. For they're raw and amorous. Admire a dangerous beauty, and never forget the men who underestimated her, the men she swallowed whole.

http://www.elephantjournal.com/2015/09/loving-a-fearless-sensitive-warrior/