The bravest soul I know diffuses with loving playfulness
creatively redirects, and receives my messiness with open arms.
This bright soul has known the pain of scarring losses, chilling uncertainties, and the frozen heart of narcissism. She speaks clearly and honestly with unapologetic authenticity wrapped up in the most tender self-love.
A beacon of radiant energy, she meets me where I am, teaches me to trust, evolve, and be more intimate with myself; all the while, showing me that I can do hard things.
With a deep compassion for her humanness, her soul marvels in the ordinary, sees abundance all around, and visits the difficult feelings often as she embraces the mystery of life with wonder and surrender.
Monday, October 31, 2016
Sunday, October 30, 2016
Work in Progress
I write because my first draft in life is often messy.
I write because I yearn to be a perfect final draft every time I show up.
I write because I cannot erase different versions of myself that I wish were never seen.
I write because my pain is too deep to not leave a stain or three on most paths that I author.
I write because I come from a line of writers who only showed me the final draft after emptying out their overflowing trash bins.
I write because self-compassion is that orange flyer at the bottom of the stale pile of words I will one day read.
I write because the coffee-stained crumpled-up version of myself cannot seem to find the cosmetic backbone it needs to show up as a final draft first.
I write because I remember that a messy first draft can be reckoned with until redemption.
I write because I yearn to be a perfect final draft every time I show up.
I write because I cannot erase different versions of myself that I wish were never seen.
I write because my pain is too deep to not leave a stain or three on most paths that I author.
I write because I come from a line of writers who only showed me the final draft after emptying out their overflowing trash bins.
I write because self-compassion is that orange flyer at the bottom of the stale pile of words I will one day read.
I write because the coffee-stained crumpled-up version of myself cannot seem to find the cosmetic backbone it needs to show up as a final draft first.
I write because I remember that a messy first draft can be reckoned with until redemption.
Whisperer
They call her the Whisperer.
Landlord Whisperer.
She converses and reverses a tide of ruptures
waiting to rip the seams of nascent partnerships.
She invests and digests time spent on mediating circumstances
between different walks of life.
Days turn to weeks.
Months turn to years and soon a decade.
Before the celebration of another day's work comes the coronation
of new laws shaping tired conversations.
They call her the Whisperer.
Landlord Whisperer.
Landlord Whisperer.
She converses and reverses a tide of ruptures
waiting to rip the seams of nascent partnerships.
She invests and digests time spent on mediating circumstances
between different walks of life.
Days turn to weeks.
Months turn to years and soon a decade.
Before the celebration of another day's work comes the coronation
of new laws shaping tired conversations.
They call her the Whisperer.
Landlord Whisperer.
pRescription
Someone handed me a note
to cure me from the Wild.
A fast and sure way to wipe away
the rage, righteousness, and courage.
Refills without expiration passed on to my tired mind
by a cascade of ancestral whipping hands.
An ancestry founded on deep pillars of perfectionism
in an ocean of self-loathing, abuse, and shame.
Each time I swallowed a pill
another wave washed over my soul's footprint.
Until one day, the waves crashed with the vengeance
that only the tragic death of the unborn can manifest.
And with each crash, I swept farther away from my pill dispenser
only to discover the messy and splendidly courageous soul I carry.
to cure me from the Wild.
A fast and sure way to wipe away
the rage, righteousness, and courage.
Refills without expiration passed on to my tired mind
by a cascade of ancestral whipping hands.
An ancestry founded on deep pillars of perfectionism
in an ocean of self-loathing, abuse, and shame.
Each time I swallowed a pill
another wave washed over my soul's footprint.
Until one day, the waves crashed with the vengeance
that only the tragic death of the unborn can manifest.
And with each crash, I swept farther away from my pill dispenser
only to discover the messy and splendidly courageous soul I carry.
Sólo para mí
Sólo para mí
Quiero una habitación sólo para mí
En donde no hay bulla, bola, ni bastón
Para poder pensar, descansar, y algunas veces llorar
Quiero un cuarto sólo para mí
En donde guardo mis libros, mis juguetes, y mis secretos en un cajón
Para poder estar con mis amigos cuando vienen a jugar
Quiero un espacio sólo para mí
En donde puedo recuperar mis energías en mí propio malecón
Para que mis sueños, mis ideas, y mis poemas sueltos puedan volar
(El que nació primero)
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