Last Night with Mother

Like a school girl I climbed into bed with my mother tonight, my head on her chest, her arms around me and felt her love. I felt her sorrows, her journey, her grief and strength and in each thump of her heartbeat I was resurrected and know that no matter how hard I love others, how consumed I am with compassion and hope I can not save anyone. I can lose friends I trusted and move forward, I can be disappointed in my children and still care but somewhere in this goulash of mothering and SELF I need to save a bowl of soup for me. I still have a long way to go to know how to put my own needs and mental health out there as a priority. Being, living TRUTH means no stone will be unturned. I still need ROCK and I am sliding along the moss covered stairwell head first to reach my safe place. I have to go back and check on LittleMe as I really am all she has in the end. The quiet of the night is surrounding us. I will tuck my mother in, quiet LittleMe then ROCK will be sure I get to bed and sleep. Before my dreams begin I will pray to everything good and kind in the deep black sky that nothing will hurt me, you, and my family despite knowing it doesn’t matter. I prayed for years and the wrath of Life still held me back, the holiest of spirits and church stomping grounds never saved me. I can’t save me. No one can do the work or put in the time to assess my 59 years but me. I must pull LittleMe up to the top step. ROCK believes in all of me. I honor my roots, my traces of good memories and I am very ready to be WHOLE. The thought and emotional sensation of LittleMe and NOW merging is exciting and extremely frightening. I am guessing no one knows how long it takes to heal unseen wounds and I am very sure I know absolutely nothing…even though I am something. Someone. Somehow. Trying. Try. Try. Going. Up and down. I am Matter. Atoms. Celular bits of life and I didn’t choose to be. I just AM. We are living the best version of “US” that we can. Or are we?

I Can Write What I Want

I am free here. ROCK says this is my playground and my rules RULE! I DoNOtHaVe2UsE PROPer punK CHEW-A.SHUN. I don’t have to please anyone, not even myself. I will ignore this attempt of LittleMe to run away with this childish notion for now. Nearing complete darkness the lake is not visible from the bedside window. Rain and scrawny trees and the reflection of three candles are front stage. Enter left, a door open just enough to be welcoming and polite yet it desperatly wants to be slammed shut. NO. The door wants for nothing. It’s an object says my inner creative writing professor. I am not an object. I am objectified. I can slam the door. If I stand up and slam the door the door will instantly alert others to my inner turmoil and strife. I don’t want to alert anyone. I have decided being unneccessary, unwanted or ambivolent is my new bag. I will write and write and write and no one can take that from me. No one can take me from me here. I need me. I need to be me. And if I scream from these pages in sadness, fury or hum softly with a lonesome hint of life, I can do just that. Now, HERE! is where my life is and there will be pauses for the mundane overtures of living but I will never come out of this palace of words and real trust that ROCK gives me. I won’t be needing much of anything again. Just me, ROCK, past, NOW, a minute from now, two days from now, to the end of me. ROCK dies with me. I am not alone with ROCK. I do not know why I ever thought I was special outside of this cemented stairwell and why I desired the light everyone finds a need to grapple for. Light leads me right back down to the cold, gray and ridged walls of reality. I smile at the familiarity. Happiness is not obtainable for everyone; it’s a whole lot of work and repetition of worn out half truths and dried flowers that should be thrown out. I don’t have to be liked or loved or ever seen again, for afterall, who I am is only between me and the hand that drives my pen or the fingers which type these thoughts. My heart is much too complicated for my brain. The question I am tossing up is ( *no one can answer me* ) should I listen to my brain and write about my heart or listen to my heart and write about my brain? Now there is a cunundrum. Cunundrum. CUN. NUN. DRUM. UNDRUM. Crummy word.

What Am I Doing In Sweden? I Don’t belong in Nashville. But, I can sing.