Strange feelings

I wish I could write everyday. I wish I could connect enough with myself and with the world and that connection would be coherent enough for me to be able to express it in words. Words have always fascinated me. It may be because if I was skilled enough I could hide behind them and nobody would know who I really was. Or it may be a real desire for creativity, a way to attempt connection. Any kind.

I had an energy medicine session last week and it left me rather raw and vulnerable. I am sort of enjoying this new feeling of being exposed to the world. I am a little scared of it, but it also feels like home in a strange way. I feel like a volcano. Is it still active? Is there lava under there, waiting to errupt? How does it feel to be the people in the village at the bottom of the volcano. You never know...

I am vulnerable to the world. I am starting to see who I am. I am battling with loads of generational baggage. I am in love with the lava.

What energizes me?

When life throws me in a whirlpool, when things don't go my way or any way... When I feel lost and need comfort, when I need some extra energy...

I go outside and let the sunhine warm me inside and out
I marvel at the beauty of nature
I play with my girl
I blow bubbles
I read a good book
I paint
I drink ice cold water
I stop and observe the moment
I cry
I lament to a good friend
I get and give a hug
I love.

What to you do?

My Mondo Beyondo List

- Be a writer
- Win the Nobel Prize for Literature
- Heal people
- Meet Bruce Springsteen
- Own a restaurant
- Own a bookshop for children with a huge arts and crafts area
- Live for awhile on each continent - two down :-)
- Help people in third world countries
- Find true love and throw myself in it full force

Some of these I have been dreaming since I was a kid. I am still dreaming...

The poem that seems to define the NOW

The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--determined to save
the only life you could save.

Mary Oliver

I'm back

It has been awhile... Why such a long break, one may ask? I have started a journey, a journey for the soul. I am reclaiming myself, making myself known by ME. So far, my writing has been about a lot of repressed feelings, hiding behind metaphors. I hope for a more direct, sustained experience now. Here's to a new start...

The Tree

A tree is growing from my heart. I thought I was dreaming. I woke up in the morning and felt a leaf tickling my throat. Hmmm... Did I eat leaves last night?? I went on living for awhile longer and one morning, I felt the leaf again. It really is a tree: beautiful, solid, with lots of roots. I can see it in the left side of my heart.

I guess it's time to give my heart a thorough inspection. I haven't spent too much time with it lately. It's a shame, really. It has so much to say, and it usually makes me feel like I am part of myself again. I see colors, I see wind, the sea is still there, salty and enormous. The flowers I once burried in there are still alive. How can that be? Thank you, my heart. Oh, yes. I can see the compartments too. I have built them so carefully, thick walls, no windows. Safe. Just in case I decide to look inside sometime. There are couple of holes in some of them, I'll have to fix them later. Heart, please send a note to my brain about this.

This is interesting: there's a window here. Did I put it there? I don't remember it. I can see so clearly through it. All of a sudden my compartments are not safe anymore. I can see my whole world in this window. I am vulnerable. I am afraid. I am hopeful. I am in love. I think I'll keep it.
Thank God for the tree growing in my heart!

Carnival

Let's go to the carnival.
Let's watch the acrobats fly, let's imagine they are us.
Let's fly freely, with no fear of falling.

A rose? Sure, I will take one. I will wear it in my hair.
I am a gypsy. I come with the wind, I leave when the flowers bloom.
You want to ride the carousel?
Be careful. The world is spinning, the colors bleed and blend.
What color are you?

Yes, the clowns are here too.
They make me laugh... a little. I just know they are sad.
I know, I should ask them to fly.

Today, the clowns are acrobats, the acrobats are elephants,
and we are endless.

Broken?

I knew it was broken when I touched it that day.
That roughness of the edge, the smooth sides and the change in color…
I asked my friends and they agreed
I took it outside to look at it in the sunlight.
Same.
It was broken.
I used to love the intense deepness and the clarity I would always see in it.
I spent hours gazing into its abyss, bathing in all the nuances,
running with it, flowing with it, swimming in it.
I missed that unbelievable blue. It used to reflect so nicely into my eyes…
Well…
Maybe I can fix it. I mean, surely, it’s not broken for good, right?
If I can just find that missing piece…
Maybe I can grow the missing piece.
I know, it won’t be the same, but it will be whole again.
I will be able to sink into it again.
Others will be able to enjoy it too.
Especially since theirs is probably broken too…
I know. I will hold it close, love it, wrap it in gentleness, collect colors from the rainbow and dip it in them, warm it up in the sunlight, sing to it, make it feel safe.
It will be whole again…
… my heart.

Letter to my mentor

It was a dark day, it was a cold day
We were sitting in that old building, in a small apartment, the air smelling of moth balls
I was searching; you have done your search
I was young; you were at the end of your journey
Questions, comments, discussions, opinions, advice… I had it all
Not from you
You told me to search my soul
You told me to look outside
You told me to listen to my heart
You told me to tell everyone to shut-up
You told me to decide
and continue searching
I did
You are gone
I am here, still here, still searching, but happy with what I found so far
I can sit in an old building, in a small apartment and
I hope I will tell someone else to continue searching…

You First

Rays of sunshine on my leaves.
I wake up and feel the dew running away from me.
I wake up first and wait for you.
Will you be late? I want you to caress my drops,
I save them all for you.
I know you are thirsty.
Hurry. You are the first to taste my love,
you are the first to wake up under my shadow,
you are the first to be green,
you are the first to shine,
you are the first to see the rays of sunshine on my leaves.

Poetry Month

This is very cool. April is Poetry Month and there is a literary challenge out there: write one poem every day in April. That's awesome! I am still working on finishing the 50 days, 50 writings, so this is really exciting. So, the poems you will be seeing here are also part of the April challenge...

Choices

People make choices every second. How tiring it is to watch them fight the flow of life. We get to crossroads and we feel we have to choose on of the roads. We could just close our eyes and feel our way through. But we don’t. We think and analyze, we take few steps one way, we think again, we go back to the crossroads, we talk to other people who are there in the same time with us. Sometimes, we create a committee. We can think more and analyze better like that. We will utilize all of our resources to think. We don’t feel. No, we want to make the best LOGICAL choice. People who allow themselves to feel are flakes. We are serious. We think.

We choose. We go on and it doesn’t feel right. So, instead of turning back and trying to get to the other road as soon as we can, while we still know the way back, we keep going. We keep going on the wrong road and we think. We think of all the way we can make this road be the good road. We also analyze our original thinking, so we can understand where the mistake was, so we can learn and never repeat it. Never. We look around and we ask our road companions: “How are you? Are you happy with your choice?” They lie and say: “Yes”. To recognize their mistake would make the look week. So you go on and think and rationalize yourself out of the pain of knowing you made a mistake.

When you get to another crossroad you are relieved and start the thinking process knowing that you have learned from your previous choice. Now we are not going to get it wrong. We’ve already been here. We are older and wiser, now we know to make choices. We still don’t feel, that’s still not smart! We think some more. By now we are tired, but we just know we have to make the right choice. A voice tells us: “This doesn’t FEEL good.” We run away in panic because we are not supposed to feel. Think. Think. Think.

This was a close one…

No Title?

What should I write?
Blue on yellow. Trees in front of houses. The sound of a baby sleeping.

I write to feel. I write to live. Now I’ll write for titles…
The title of my perfect poem will be:
The man on the moon that never faded
Or
Flying through the sea of sorrow on my way to the end
Or
Blue and red on a yellow field, before anyone thought of green

Yes. I like that.
Too bad I haven’t written the poem yet…

Luck

How do you define “luck” especially when you don’t know if it exists? If “luck” would be a stone, what shape would it have? What color? Would be small or big, shiny or rough? If “luck” would be a leaf, would be green, or red? Would be long and thin, or heavy and thick? What if “luck” can hear you? What would you say?

My “luck” is a horse. A beautiful, black stallion. He has a shiny, long mane, he lives in the mountains, and he talks. He only talks to me, of course, so please don’t try to talk to him. You probably won’t even see him anyway… He comes when I call him and he looks at me with those big, dark eyes. I lay on him and become one with the passion of the horse. He runs and the wind blows all over my face. He keeps me safe, he brings me up, he gives me strength and then, he brings me back. He jumps on his back legs, turns around and leaves. Till next time.

I go back home and dream of my lucky, black stallion. He is really not mine, is he?

Books

I grew up amongst books. They were always alive for me. They helped me sleep, they helped cry and they helped me be. I remember my old town during cold, heavy winter nights… The town was asleep and I was reading stories out laud. It smelled like snow, tea and fresh bread. It smelled like the love of my grandparents and it felt incredibly safe in the cold house with thick stone walls. The darkness was surrounding us, but the snow was light… I was sitting by the stove reading “Alone in the world” by Hector Malot.

Remy, the hero of my childhood. The orphan boy who travelled France together with an artist ambulant. The orphan who lived a harder life than me, the boy who didn’t have the love I had, but who found his mother and a love that I didn’t know. I read that book at least 50 times. I cried and laughed and felt incredibly lucky. It could have been worse. I could have been Remy…

Then, there were “The three musketeers” by Alexandre Dumas. Oh, I remember I was in love with Athos. Everyone I knew loved d’Artagnan, but I was always Athos. The older one, the mature one, the serious and the sad, but the one that was always there. The unselfish one. The one that kept the pain hidden deep inside a smile, the one that kept feeling undeserving of happiness.

And then, there were hundreds of other books, poetry, fiction, biography, historical novel, and motivational books, books that cried with me, books that I kept hidden, books that I carried with me everywhere I went, serious books, and even few funny ones. I have always gone back to Remy and Athos, though. They are me…

Letter to the Moon

Dear Moon,

I have been meaning to talk to you for awhile now, but was always busy, counting the starts that surround you. You do know there are many stars out there, don’t you?

Well, it is time now. Time for you to know about me. I have been watching you ever since I can remember, I have tried to talk to you, but I guess you haven’t heard me since you never answered. At one point in time, I thought you are just rude. I guess you are just far away. My daughter told me that you are very far. She knows, because she’s visited you. She told me how the man on the moon is really nice and that you two get along just fine. I’m glad, because I was worried about you. I would hate to know that you are there alone all the time and you can even hear us. That’s too lonely. Even for a Moon…

I’m here. You are there. I guess, somehow we are together although you don’t know me.
I am infatuated with you. I wish I could hold and caress you. I wish I could sing you lullabies and watch you sleep. I have to tell you now, I just can’t keep this as a secret anymore. I love you. There. I said it.

Yours truly,

The woman not on the Moon.

Utopia

In my world there are no cars.
In my world there are no boxes.
In my world, there are no lines.
In my world, there are no tears.

In my world, live only hearts.
In my world, live only writers.
In my world, live only eyes.
In my world, live only smiles.

You are in my world. And you, and you, and you.
She is in my world too. And he, and you, and you.
She can only visit my world, though.
When the sun sets in my world, she has to go back into hers.

In my world there is no pain.
In my world there is no wait.
In my world there is no fence.
In my world there is no regret.

In my world, you are what you want to be.
In my world, you look up at the sky and smile.
In my world, you are loved.
In my world, you are you.

Resistance

I step outside. Outside of my mind. I can see my heart pumping, resisting to letting go of feelings. My heart seems suffocated in the crowd of thoughts, feelings and rocks. I look around and try to figure out the magic words. I need magic words, right? I think I need to stop this overwhelming feeling of too much feeling.

The world around us resists to letting go. The night doesn’t want to let go of darkness. The moon lingers in the sky even when it is obvious that the sun is there. The leaves do not want to fall off the trees, the parents do not want to let their children grow. Who am I to decide that letting go is the thing to do?

My heart is still beating. That’s good, I think. I am inside my mind and I know I should leave. I need to live outside of my mind, my thoughts should be my companions not my rulers, my feelings should call before they show up… I’ve managed to grow a pretty spoiled bunch of feelings. They come and make themselves at home. Next thing I know they completely moved in.

I am here. I am sorting through my years. It’s spring cleaning. My first. I promise, there is no resistance this time. I will only keep what I need… It’s a beautiful, sunny day. I’ll keep this one.

Wishes of a tree

Have you ever imagined being a tree? A tall, strong, straight up, serious tree. Or, a small tree with lots of branches in someone’s backyard. A mountain tree, or a prairie tree, or even a palm tree.

I was talking to this tree once, and he was telling me stories from a far away time. He remembered every second of his hundreds of years. He told me he doesn’t get to have conversations too often and he was happy I stopped by. I touched its trunk and he shivered. “Nobody touched me in a long time.” “Last I remember, this little girl came and hugged me, buried her face in my leaves and asked me to hold her.” A leaf fell on my shoulder. I picked it up and said “Thank you”. I looked up and the branches were dancing, I stopped and listened: the tree was singing. The sweetest lullaby…

The tree told me about his youth and his wishes. When he was growing up, he wished to be a huge, tall tree in the middle of a forest, the tallest tree around. Then, he grew, the trees around him grew in a forest and he was the tallest. People would come and admire him, the other trees where envious and stopped talking to him. He grew lonely and sad. He wished to be a small tree in someone’s backyard. He wished he had friends and that kids would climb up on him and decorate him at Christmas. He wished and he grew older and sadder as time went by. That’s where he was when I stopped and hugged him. We talked for a long time and he told me his last wish…

I turned to leave and he burst into flames. I watched that big tree crumble up until there was nothing but ashes and amber.

The tree lived… The tree was happy… The wish was granted…

Counting

How many times have I heard: “you have to be first, coming in second doesn’t count”? I lost count. The first memory of my childhood is that of me as a child, in a crib, calling for someone to come. I could hear the voices outside my room, I was calling, but nobody came. I don’t know how old I was. I don’t remember anything else. It was just the fear of being alone. Was it the first time I felt alone, or the first time I felt fear? I don’t really know. It feels like the first time to me, so I guess, it was.

I would like second for awhile… What was my second memory as a child? I don’t know. The memories run together after the first one. I am infatuated with the notion of peace, with being able to let go of thoughts and feel compelled to just feel. I’m not counting anymore.