This is a draft that has been sitting! *emoji of monkey putting hands over eyes* Since returning home I have been diving head-first into juicy artistic endeavors, and part of them pertain to what I was about to share with you all when I started writing THIS:
Over the last 6 months I have posted a weekly ‘Day of Venus’ entry, with the intention of a) keeping my water flowing/my faucet turned ON, and b) overcoming any hesitancy to be unapologetic and raw and as _____ as I am channeling. I am now going to be posting more articles, poetry and creative non-fiction pieces, many of them drawing from lines, stanzas and entries on this site, as well as from journals on my shelves and in my lap and the tiny ones I kept in my fannie-pack for the in-between trances. I am tremendously grateful for your readership and so excited about the future. Here is one last unhinged and unedited free-flow (or poetry? line? song?) before I do a makeover on my entire blog/website over the next chapter of being. Cheers!I love you!
I am a witness of the nest
shared by two eagles,
about 9 miles from our apartment. A river is heard
collecting mineral, wing, song, seed.
I am of this concoction of creative matter,
onlooker and looked-upon,
where "active" and "still" become one, the longer you see.
A lover alongside my lover,
a lover alongside love itself.
When your moon-world is beckoning and knowing and feeding you visions, I hope you choose her over the promises you made, the good girl you were told to be, the routine you got used to. Choose the swell of the ocean when it comes to your yard, and the rich soil running black into the earth, for this is to live. And to love is to want all beings of the world to live while they’re alive. To reside in the sun-moon lit caves of your towering spine, is to allow yourself to really settle into your bones to be able to listen. Are they asking for a dance? Can you feel your rib’s vibration when you speak? What is the story being told by the sound of your feet against the ground each day? What are you excited about draping over your shoulders? What are you willing to put down?
The last hour of sun was behind you,
teal and gold from my bedside curtain cradling your face,
and I had just seen your collarbones
for the first time.
The language-less animal knew--
that choir of singing cells that is my body--
how many songs, how much poetry,
how much bowing was to come
beside the constellations on your skin.
It Is Here
Learning the technicalities, where to balance the scales, and where to add a passageway on the earth for water to dance itself into. “All in perfect timing” soothes the angel in my spirit, speaking from The Quiet Place. Tension builds when I am away from pen and paper, melody and the vibration of my voice in time and space. It feels like release, like long-awaited-for ecstasy flowing through my being, when I am an outlet for all of this love and this coming-to love that is unending and one and the same. The “coming-to” as well as the “to” both ache like, pull like, hold and release, and breathe in and breathe out like love. I could just write about, explore, express, research, live in, talk to, befriend-again love all day and you know what? I’m doing that right now and `I did that yesterday too. I harness the energy and lay down the stones for river-ways to flow, give life, and to be in union with The Ocean of It All.
This is the 15th Friday of my Day of Venus Posts, where I let wash up what is present in the undercurrents of my mind, heart and spirit. I am honored and deeply grateful for your readershipas I cultivate my writer voice blindfolded—vertebrae by vertebrae, all chrysalis and soil.
This particular entry is more self-study and diary-like compared to recent posts, but it was all that wanted to come out and as I promised to myself in doing these, I am not going to edit or alter or hide out of shame or any resistance. As a warning, there are mentions of abuse and childhood trauma, so if you think that would make you uncomfortable for any reason, please do not read ahead. It’s been an intense week of therapy and solitude, so this is what is brewing in the aftermath of an eclipse. Writing is often a participation in an alchemical process that allows for healing and restoration, and with this post that is very much the case. As I write it out, I dispose of it and am lighter because of it taking a form outside of me, and I encourage others to try the same. Write out your fears, your torments, your confusion–from a place of seeking solace, understanding, peace. Particularly if you have been silent about pain for survival or out of fear–writing is liberating and allows for courage and a boldness to replace the silence and hesitation, and this more often than not trickles into every aspect of your life.
The translucent embryo of the empty space around the wic, the indigo ring at the basin, the voltaic scarlet, steady and tall, the smoke ringlets that are pulled into the air–I am made of all of the flame. Steady and enveloping, even when I am unaware, or forgetful, I still am. Patient and whole; dancing and still. May I act, speak and maneuver myself through time like I know I am burning. May the knowing replace all eagerness, all illusion of void, all hallucination of lack.
Relationships are spiritual work. All kinds of relationships, yes, but right now I am speaking on the romantic kind–the kind where the same side of your bodies ache at the same time, and they say what you are thinking and you sing what they have going on in the undercurrents of their psyche. So much work, yes, but let us excuse ourselves from the chambers of mirrors from time to time, and why not for most of the time? Let’s take a gummy and take off our heads. Let’s take off our words and our explanations of why we are the way we are. Let’s watch the rabbits and their white tails jump ahead of us and into dark green. I’ll put my playlist on shuffle while your hand is in my hair. I’ll rest my hand on your thigh and you’ll watch the sunset out the window. Let’s remember to be with one another while we are with one another, without wanting to consume or be consumed by. Let’s remember that while there is work to do, there is also loving to be done. Let’s take off the weight of commitment and unknowns and the uncontrollables of our mind’s antics, to just be companions for awhile. Let’s remember we are also friends.
In this work if we are not careful, we paint one another as villains, as the same people who have caused us harm. Because it has been those closest to us who have caused us the most harm, our closeness brings hallucinations of times past. We are learning to untangle ourselves and come undone while being close to one another. Our very closeness triggers the fears we unknowingly let run rampant. Alchemy: Let us remember to observe the impulses to make one another the enemy–the thing-to-be-conquered and put into place, the studied opponent you need to prove yourself as more-than to, the hijacker of light who hovered around you as a child. “I am not them; you are not them”–let this be our mantra. May we wrangle the hallucinations of our mind and pull it’s eyes to our own. In the middle of the flame of my existence is this anchor, and let it be your own: I wish you peace; I wish peace for myself. You wish me peace; you wish peace for yourself. When this is at the core of our being, our intentions, our motives, we have nothing to lose, nothing to fear, nothing to hide. May we grow and grow and grow–more soft, more light-footed, more joyous, more free.
We ask of the world: Please do not take my weaknesses and use them for your momentary gain. Please do not extract the lighthouses of my soul’s sailing and scrutinize their glow. Please do not take from me more than I can afford to give without becoming lost. Please do not delight in my sorrows, my insecurities, my losses, my illusions of inferiority. Please do not hide your true desires and regard me as a play-thing, a stepping stone, a cute little afterthought of a doll. We ask so politely, then we demand, then we sit and wonder how the world could be so cruel. And so it is we learn that we have to sometimes be “bad”, be a disappointment, excuse ourselves, and learn that the world will not always know how to honor this for us, will not always comprehend the value of peace and of wanting peace for another–we have to do the honoring for ourselves; we have to create the peace by being picky, selective, territorial, wolf-like. It is by creating the peace inside of ourselves we are able to view the world from this place and not be fooled. It is by actively honoring ourselves that we are unable to interact with energies that are dishonoring of us.
When you experience peace you value it. You become picky. You become attracted to peace and attractive to peace. It becomes the most valuable thing in the world, worth cultivating, worth holding a lot of space for, and worth excusing yourself from arenas for. May I attract more people who have experienced peace, and who are experiencing peace. May my being be what guides me.
I am made of every woman I have ever admired, and they are made of me. All of the winged and rose-aura’d-the-fuck-out women; all of the this-is-my-truth-and-I’m-sticking-to-it, stubborn-ass torch-holding women; all of the singing sly-foxed & winking women I worked with who became my mothers; all of the faeries to ever join me in studying leaf and rock and birdsong by a water’s edge. Every woman I have ever hummed alongside, and every woman whose humming put me into trance. In me is my very own castle ground–garden and stream and terrace greeting the sunlight.
May all of my exchanges with everyone I ever meet be without a sense of greed, without motive, without hidden pretentiousness. There is a richness in exchanges where nothing is being sought or hoped for. When there is a lack of eagerness both people can communicate without words, and the exchange is more a walk through the woods than transactional. I remember me–light stepper. I remember me–praise freely thrown around without hesitation, and sourced from the highest octave of my heart. I remember me–headphones blaring and weaving laps around churches and park-gatherings on Sunday morning–waving and smiling and leaping over puddle and pothole. I remember me–the I’ll-see-you-when-I-see-you and still-stays-true lover. I remember me–the while-we’re-here-we-might-as-well-enjoy-ourselves lady at the bus stop, singing opera in the rain. I remember me–pareo loose around my waist and baggy t-shirt right-out-of-bed and headed to the cliffs for a few jumps, before social media was a thing, before thoughts of capturing moments existed.
I remember me before I became so fearful, so hesitant, so unsure, so critical of myself, and I invite even more of me–more than I have ever experienced before. I invite more of my loudness, my spontaneous gestures of glee, my open and affectionate smirk, my eyes closed and singing for the neighbors to hear, my dancing and my gliding and my proposals to dance. I accept invitations and actually attend. I come out to play and become a part of a grand festival for a lifetime. All alchemical processes where peace is my anchor and my home allow for this. “You have nothing to fear honey. You are so beautiful and everyone can see it, and there is no need to feel a nervousness.” I accept words like this I have recently been gifted, and I let them permeate in my being to become me. More words I hold close to my heart said to me recently: “We see you and you belong here. You are welcome here.” “You belong with those who take your gifts seriously–not with those who spend their time merely marinating. The more you trust in the steadiness of your peace and make that your home, the more you are able to differentiate.”
To know patience is to know peace; to know peace is to know patience. All eagerness and all outward seeking vanishes when there is this knowing. Less and less you feel a need to defend or prove. Watch as you become less interested in whether or not someone else sees you, favors you, values you. There are things that matter less and less, as room is made for more more soul-sparking exchanges.
How appropriate that during the start of Gemini season I hold all truths as equals regardless of the fact that many of them are in opposition to one another. The truth is that the truth is contradicting. I’ve become tired of trying to take sides or place one as “more-true” than the other. All of them are true, and when I am able to walk along the place where they meet, there is a peace on that in-between bridge that I am learning to linger on for longer durations of time. It is better to walk along the walls that separate the voices in this way, being able to peer in and admire or observe, rather than to jump in and be consumed by. Writing is easier to do when I am this watcher of a being, and not in the midst of being tossed about in a basket of clanging mirrors. And even then that is not entirely true–I am able to write from that basket place, but everything I write from inside of that basket will then be an instrument of that place–kind of a disruptive place to be in. So a lot of my writing over the last week is this way–kept in drafts to observe later when I am not filled with voices other than my own, yet here are some recorded clips from inside of the maze:
It is my responsibility to make myself safe. The cop-out is always to blame–what they lack or do or have done that makes me feel unseen, unaccepted, rejected must be the reason I am this way–why I cannot.. what I do not… where I am unable to… There is no responsibility for myself when I place my life into the hands of someone else’s doings and un-doings. There is no redemption to be had while in a seat of blame–all victim and small-voiced and withering in the hands of my own hallucinations. Waiting around to be accepted, respected, seen or acknowledged does me no good. Do I admire myself? Yes. Do I enjoy what I exude and put out into the world? Yes. Am I proud of who I am? Yes. Do I like who I am? Yes. Remembering that the void is an illusion is what allows me to move and speak and make decisions in ways I haven’t before. And…
When we are in relationships we sort of “plug in” to what they have going on inside of them, and in this we can lose pieces of ourselves that are important for our well-being if we aren’t careful. We have to learn to be territorial over what matters to our spirit bodies, while also allowing the other to have their own world and do what they want with it. There is a merging-of-worlds that naturally happens–a psychic sense of knowing when something is unsettled in their heart, even when they are miles and miles away. Suddenly the same sides of your body ache around the same time, you think a thought they speak and you sing a song they have in the undercurrents of their psyche. I find myself wanting my body back, my mind to go un-stirred, my movements to go unnoticed, unquestioned, un-critiqued–even though it is all under the surface I can still feel it being done and I feel a fight in me, a resistance to being consumed. I am learning how to remain a steady flame while being misunderstood, unfavored or disregarded, and ultimately that is a lesson worth acing.
There is a “you-stay-over-there and I-stay-over-here” which is healthy, and it is only healthy if this allowance for sovereignty is given from a place of deep and sincere respect for their personhood and soul as an individual, apart from you and sacred on it’s own. I am learning this is a love language for me–can you let me be me even when that being has nothing to do with you? Can you let me drift into myself and create a world for myself without it causing you to lose interest, seek another, or become scornful toward me?
When `I am abiding by unconscious patterns I become small and quiet and convince myself that I am smaller-than, less sacred, less important than the person I am with. What a heavy lesson to learn and what a gross learned-pattern to become aware of–to trace this pattern back to a long period of time where I sat in spaces where my abuser boasted and ranted for hours about his loftiness, his successes, his more-thans and better-thans, as well as his blood-daughter’s–my own sweet little sister–telling me that she is more-wise, more-sacred, and showing me this is so by making me a play-thing, an object, a dumping ground, while she is taught and shown sweetness. Creating envy in my heart where there was adoration. How cruel of an act–to convince a child they are not as innocent as they are, as Holy as they are, as special as they have been born. And then it is my responsibility to now see I am no longer a victim, and the things people close to me do and say are not efforts to tear me down, pin me down, show me they are better or more. I suppose even if someone is expressing something in an effort to trump, dominate or prove–if my perception is “they are in a world of their own and it has nothing to do with my world” it serves everyone involved–setting me free and letting their own intentions dance in the air around them, in a muck of a game where they are the only player. It ultimately better serves me to decipher everything around me the same way I decipher a child’s statements, and this is an inner alchemical process that is serving me well these days. When a child comes to me and exclaims “I practiced the songs for my mom all weekend”, “I went to .. before and my mom gave me..”, “Look what I did–I made a…” they are seeking acceptance, approval, validation. So in a human being’s statements of show-and-tell, including my own, there is an innocent quest for acknowledgment and praise. Remembering this sets me free. Then I trace this back to the wound–for a grown man to be parading himself and exclaiming his superiority in an unconscious attempt to gain power over, make himself above and take power from, must mean he suffers from a deep perceived sense of lack of power, a soul that had forgotten it’s wholeness, a hungry void he had been living from–never satisfied, never having an experience of peace. And in this way I rise above the hallucinations and allow peace to permeate. Everything is alchemical when it comes to healing–you cannot shove away the monsters or you become cold, mean, resentful toward God. By seizing the moment when the angry shadows come swaying in your perceptions of the world, we shed the skin of old phenomenon and enter into new experiences.
Connect to and be entranced by something other than me–something greater than human and more sky than rubble, more winged than the oil of the earth, or become a devoted follower of The Earth Herself. Show me how you pray and tell me who your teachers are–what poems? Which stories? Whose mothers? When you feel yourself slipping into shadow, tell me about your anchors–the pillars that remind you that the dark is the illusion of the absence of light. Show me how you spend your time alone–what you feed yourself and the sounds you allow inside of your mind.
May I build a world of my own and still be loved? Without my attention on you do you lose interest in loving who I am? Does knowing you are not what or whom I live for make me less appealing? When I am not privy to your every move and motion, am I boiled down to only a mirror of all of the faces who have hurt you? When I am taken by the sky do I become less attractive? Do you suddenly fill with scorn and critique and smugness when I am hypnotized by wonder? Do you scoff at my thirst for and enjoyment of something greater than you and I? May I have my world and have love too? May I go to the event, and stay out all night long? May I sing a song with all my being about a love story from another lifetime? May I be excused from the order of things for a longer period time than you think realistic? May I play? May I be happy to be alive simply because I am alive? May I be proud of who I am just because I am? May I be at peace with myself without needing an external accomplishment? Am I less wise because I don’t know the name of the theory, the doctor, the book? Do I have to wither and die and be made the loser in your story in order to come alive in mine? Are your thoughts menacing things like “Ha! We will see if you actually..” “Ha! What do you know about…” “Ha! I have.. and you just have..” “Ha! You think you’re a .. but you are..” “Ha! I am.. but you are..” “Ha! Ha! Ha!” Because sometimes mine are. Are you bold enough to bring these to the light? Because I am. I am ready and en route. Will you come? Do you want to be lifted into the sky with me? Because I want you to come. But I am going–I am going and I am going.
I allow the perceptions of others to be the world they live in, and I stay in my own. I eject myself from the need to defend, prove or steer another. I steer myself; I lay my anchor down deep. I am unmoved; I am slipping into the horizon line.
You call it pulling away; I call it saving my life. When I return I’ll be washed anew. When I slip into the sheets beside you at 3am I’ll be a petal you can rely on. Let me go be a storm sometimes. Let me save my life.
This is the 14th Friday of my Day of Venus Posts, where I let wash up what is present in the undercurrents of my mind, heart and spirit. I am honored and deeply grateful for your readershipas I cultivate my writer voice blindfolded—vertebrae by vertebrae, all chrysalis and soil.
In my hips is the storage of what is to come, what has been soaking, what is. Now is the only thing that is real and I carefully select the visions I allow to repeat themselves in my mind. I know my body is also a brain. I know my body is both a highly intelligent master and an obedient servant. My voice exposes the waves that I’ve allowed to break, the prayers I’ve whispered, the justice I crave, the love that I’ve given, and all of the moments spent alone and unseen and burning.
I walk onto a stage where the lights in my face keep me from seeing anyone’s faces. I adjust the microphone and learn to be slow and steady and inside of me more than outside of me. I do it again and again and again until I die. –A decision my whole body agrees to.
This week I sang at an open mic and learned about myself. The songs of others moved me to tears. The room itself almost made me cry–disco ball in the center and sunlight after it had been gray and cold all day sitting itself on the linen covered cushions all over the ground around the stage, shiny and life-giving people placing their beautiful instruments along the pretty wood of the walls, the window beside the stage showing the tops of trees and a sky changing from yellow to purple to black as the night played on. Hearing my voice sound out through the room, singing lines I conjured in moments of being in-between worlds, put a new color into my palette of existence. I felt naked, seen, exposed, both elegant and awkward, angelic and childlike.
Things that are soul spotlights: money, power, influence, microphones, speakers. They reveal what is collecting in corners, what is underneath, what has been beneath a tarp, the photographs and letters you keep in your shoebox. And I love the exposure. I reach into my throat and all that is nested learns how to fly.
I am singing at vineyards, among dahlias and tulips. I sing on benches under the sun and on top of mountains for the greens and ambers. I sing to children and they sing with me, back to me, for me. “Ms. A, I made a song–do you want to hear it?” and I listen close and close my eyes to listen like it is the most precious thing I have ever heard and I say “Please keep singing ok? Never ever stop singing.” “Ms. Alix I sang the song to my grandma?” “Ms. Alix I brought my piano book to school–look!” And I give and I give and I give, and I receive and I receive and I receive. I am singing in rose gardens and you stop mid-sentence to allow yourself to feel. I sing for lovers, and fighters and for people searching for a resting place to retreat to. I sing with harps and violins and drums that will you to dance. I close my eyes and am just as taken aback as you are by what flows through me. I am not even it itself, but the vessel the “it” dives into and out of. I choose to be more instrument than human. I know that a prolonged state of connection and mystery, of deep peace, and a joy so giving it hurts, is not a myth or impossibility. It is something in me so real and true and inviting. I give in more and more each day. It is for me. It is for me. It is for me because it is in me and always has been. So natural and so easy to surrender to. I create a place for this by both surrendering and redirecting my body, by accepting the call and staying on the line, by showing up as `I am and speaking, singing, moving from the inside out. I allow my love to bewilder if it must. I allow my love to be felt. I allow my love. I have nothing to fear, nothing to hide, nothing to be nervous about. Nothing Is Lost. All of the time spent wondering if this could be true… “Could this really be for me?” Every time I’ve attracted and stumbled into the dwellings of musicians and poets and painters and those with affection gleaming from their eyes–not by chance or mere coincidence, but by the sound living in me leading me to harmonization, equilibrium. All stiffness in me dissolves into a pool of water. My antennas receive and I transmit what creates a stillness, a revitalization, a state of bliss.
This week I felt many times both a drowning and a winning in the fight to keep my light alive and burning. I am still unable to pin down the cause, but I do have leads. My nose and my mouth were barely above the surface, yet above the surface–my hand above the water clenching the love letters of my light for the sun to hold for me while I figured out how to float. I felt like a slimy hatched chick, all awkward and gooey eyed, slumped and heavy and knowing nothing except that the sunlight feels good. I suppose this a great starting place–from nothing, from limited senses, from only the ability to know I am a thing that exists. I kept throwing up what I once thought of as me, and every time I saw it on the floor outside of me a tantrum took place, an exasperated voice said “What then? What now? What do I have that is worth anything?” and passing winged shadows beneath the sun’s light said “this, this, this right here and just this.”
There is an oldness in me that I have felt my whole life–old enough to know the pointlessness of competition, the meaninglessness of cuffed jeans and white shoes in photographs. Bored by teams, my attention never held in conversations with invisible score-boards. A keen knowing and understanding of when something is said from a place of rivalry vs. from a place of building connection. The noise of what our man-made systems have deemed as note-worthy, popular, standard and “the best” becomes a background static hum I check out of, and I nod my head and say “mmhm” and try to find a clever escape without becoming a rival. I have often pretended to not know, or have chosen to give praise and accolades in order to dodge a part in someone’s play. Action-packed movies have always put me to sleep, and then a film about the life of a single petal has me on the edge of my seat enraptured. It is an oldness that takes refuge in what is not asking to be seen. An oldness that easily deletes all traces of who I claim to be in the world, satisfied with only being where I am at. You met the queen and made 10 grand and I got the same surge of satisfaction from the conversation I had at the busstop with a 19-year old who bought her best friend a gift at the mall. ~
I write a lot about busstops and I guess that is because of how much I learned about myself and the world, and who `I am in the world, during the formative years of my life as a writer, taking poetry classes, attending slams on Queen street and in nooks and crannies of Chinatown, and immersing myself in literature without knowing how on earth anything I was doing with my scholarship, my time and my place in college was going to make me money in the world. I just kind of always followed breadcrumbs that felt good or were interesting to me at the time. This was before social media had such a strong presence in our lives. I had a facebook account I’d get caught up in scrolling, writing, expressing myself, but also kept careful watch of my data usage, using it mainly for the bus app or for academic emails and assignments, then sometimes the games like Words-With-Friends, Tetris and then a My Cafe game where you had to bus tables and take orders as fast as you can (why I played this stressful game while also working at such places I have no idea). At busstops and on busses I befriended all walks of life–the houseless, children, elders, criminals, the lonely, the popular, the forgotten, the tourists, healers (I met my dear friend Sylvia who later became my Reiki Master at a busstop in Honolulu), mothers, and people who never learned and never cared to learn English and so spoke to me in poetry and spoke to me via humor and loving mannerisms and gestures. So naturally my subconscious pulls from and I even have dreams of various bus stations where I spent a lot of time. I especially learned that I was an elder in a young girl’s body during those years. Observant and soft-spoken and journal-scribbling and attentive. I pretended to care about things peers my age and then society in general cared about, but at heart I never invested time or was curious enough to watch the shows, pay attention to the celebrities, understand what is socially acceptable and not socially acceptable.
I also have always had great surges of flight, a rush of emotion I couldn’t make sense of or name, and this happens all the time still to today, but `I get better and better at knowing what to do in those times. I remember once when it happened I was in the parking lot of the Polynesian Culture Center, about 16, and it was after all of the tourist busses left the lot one by one, back to the hotels, to Waikiki, to the resorts on the westside. It was about 11-midnight. I will always remember this particular surge because of how overwhelming and unexplainable it was, and how the people around me looked at me like I was crazy, another person, like I had flew off the handle and was possessed. And the truth is, I felt possessed, and during these moments that come I do feel a certain beast in me. I often wonder if I could go back in time with the understandings and awareness I have now, if I could pinpoint what triggered or caused it. What had been sitting and building up? What provoked the desire to run? I was with 3-4 people, one of them being my first relationship of my life, whom I had lived with in high school and crushed on beginning in the 5th grade. We were scheming to venture somewhere, do something, hangout somewhere–probably deciding on who to call for a ride or where we would be at for the night–whose house, whose yard, whose town to roam in. All of a sudden I felt like running, and I was angry and wanted to fight. I didn’t want to fight anyone around me–I just wanted to use my body in a way that now `I would translate as needing to push and pull heavy weight, or literally go for a run, or put music on loud and shake and dance my body through the air until the beast in me is satiated. So I remember saying things that caught everyone completely off guard, and I cannot remember what I said. I remember they were not words that hurt their feelings or served as demolitions to anyone’s spirit, just words and sentences I felt gushing out of me–maybe about my surroundings, myself, my “self”, our “selves”, the sky, the waves? I wish I could replay and witness and hear. And so I darted off running across the empty parking lot, passed my house just across the McDonalds I worked at which was across the street next to PCC, through the yard with pokey sharp blades of Japanese grass that grew in round tufts and bundles, onto the sand, blue Portuguese man o’ wars under the moonlight with tails I dodged over and around. I sat in a concave part of the tree roots of a yard where an artist lived, my body breathing rapidly and heavily after the maddening sprint. I never saw the artist or met the person who lived in that house, but my mom had. In their window facing the ocean were two manikins clothed and drinking tea. Their outfits often changed. In the yard there were statues, shapes of bright colors hanging from tree branches, gnomes and trolls and figurines that were moved, replaced or gone from time to time. And I instinctually knew that this spot was my hiding place. Everywhere we lived `I had a hiding place to run to, and it was during the years of my poetry classes and English major happenings that I realized this. I can sit and recall every hiding place I ever ran to. We moved about 5-8 times between the ages of, (well, probably birth, but when it comes to Hawai’i recollections), 4-17. I have lived in Waialua, Haleiwa, Mokuleia beach in a tent, Sunset (across the street from V-land, where they eventually built a bunch of celebrity’s houses and a big gate/fence everyone has to walk around now to get to the beach), then on the “Big Island” or the island of Hawai’i where my mom was a caretaker of a property in exchange for housing, then Hau’ula, Ka’a’awa, Punalu’u, Laie. And for every single place we lived I can recall the colors of the rocks and creatures that inhabited my hiding places. I sat and pet snails, touched water with my feet, leaned my back against roots, imagined I was a menehune and used the leaves as blankets. I spoke to God and acted out scenarios in my mind. I held bugs between my fingers and looked at their faces close-up until I scared myself and threw the bugs into the air away from me.
Anyway, nobody ever mentioned that night and nobody ever mentioned any time I ever darted off and away. It’s just always been something I’ve done. I don’t even remember walking home that night or the events that followed, but because of the intensity of the surge in me, and the look on the faces staring back at me before I took off, it has always been a particular moment I reflect on with curiosity.
I feel like for me, solitude and reclusivity breeds authenticity and helps me go back into myself when I get too caught up in another person’s, or other people’s version of the world. I take comfort in periods of no contact with the outside world because it helps me be a better listener, translator and friend to myself. It also helps me get more clear on what I am wanting, and the clearer I am about what I want, the more rapidly it can come to me.
My only real desire, my ultimate goal, is to cultivate more joy. Through joy comes creation. Joy is the highest intelligence of the universe, and it lives with or without the knowledge of or a need to understand it’s mechanisms. There is no language that could ever bottle it up enough for consumption.
Joy is not the lack of or dismissal of sadness–joy is what allows great sadness to be filtered, to be moved. Being guided by joy is not to be a stranger to the dark–but to be able to fly through it, like a bird at dusk and dawn, close enough to the dark to know better than to be consumed, and so welcoming of the light that it becomes your daughter.
I am in the middle of training myself, once again, to cultivate and allow joy to become my being. Dr. Dispenza says “your personality creates your personal reality” and it is a reminder to me. I am training myself to wake up and dwell on the beautiful visions in my heart. I am training myself to take my life into my hands be responsible for myself. I am training my “self” to participate in what brings melody to my life and allows it to come out of me.
I speak life into. I surround myself with others who speak life into. I give energy to what I want to see grow.
With every passing moment I become more loose. My hips remember an expanding, like it is in the blood I am made of and the blood that came before. It is older than grandfather time. It is a memory in my body that my mind doesn’t know as well. I interrupt and redirect the lineage into song, dance, spell, invocation. There are stories to be told now. And my grandmothers know and they cry tears of liberation. “Rest. Play. Sing. Dance.” To see that I am free now is to be free now.