The way grizzly bears are more like fire flies.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately about what love looks like. And how often that word carries with it the weight of a thousand definitions and reasons and complications. Too often we make love selfish, and wear it on our wrists like a fashion statement, when love is the most beautiful, astounding thing I have ever seen. Someone who is really attempting to live a life full of love–now that is truly a sight to behold, because once you really begin to try to love the way love should really happen, your heart becomes a wellspring. It’s indescribable. 

I just think of the inside of a person who is learning to fight is a nighttime in summer. Within lies all the potential and greatness, floating around as lightening bugs, waiting for the moment they can pour out of their mouth and shine. 

Last night I learned a powerful lesson. It was a difficult lesson, but I knew something was changing inside of me the moment I chose to find peace instead of anger at the position I had been placed in. Let me explain. I was working my job in retail and a woman that has been known to cause trouble in our store came in last night. Generally speaking, she’s downright mean and bitter. Nothing you say will calm her down or make her compliment you. She just gets a rise out of her harshness. I am definitely not one for confrontations. Especially from people I don’t know. Last night, she unloaded on me, big time. Her ranting and raving lasted for quite some time. But something inside of me screamed louder than anger and told me to bite my tongue, stand up for myself a little in a kind manner, and let it go. 

After she left I was kind of overwhelmed. As the minutes ticked on, however, I wasn’t angry, I felt sorry for her. I had seen her in our store before. She looks lonely and miserable. And honestly, as I began to ponder the circumstances for her arrival last night, I began feeling regrettably empathetic towards her plight. 

I have been addicted to watching the show Hoarders for quite a while. I quite enjoy psychology, and comprehending the reasons behind the way people behave when they have had difficult challenges in their life. One of the things that is a common theme in the reason why I have observed people hoarding is their desire to keep people out. They have been repetitively wounded in various ways for so long, that in their desperate attempt to deal with the pain, they hoard stuff that is useless to build barriers between themselves and other people. That at least the objects would love them always, that it would be there when they cried. That happiness could be found in another sack of papers or useless shirts. But no matter what they could somehow manage to find peace in something that couldn’t hurt them. It’s not that they didn’t want people in their life, because honestly most of the time the stars of these shows are so lonely you can see their breaking heart worn in the crooked way they smile. They are just so damn afraid of letting anyone in that could hurt them, that they feel keeping then out is the only way. 

And this is exactly what I felt about this woman last night. It was like she had been wearing the weight of generations of pain and all of these traumatic things that had happened to her in the direction of her step, in the cut of her words, in the bite of her anger. There is one thing I have really learned these past few months, and it is that most of the time, that anger is all a front. It keeps the people out. Anger does a good job of scaring others to stay away. It’s a defense mechanism. It happens when we are afraid to see or deal with what we are capable of inside, when we don’t comprehend that healing can happen. 

When I started thinking about the incident after, all I could do was be humbled by the prospect that she is still in the darkness with a blindfold, feeling around the cave. Something settled on my heart and made me feel stunningly aware that anger was not the appropriate response. Love will bring light. Pray for your enemies. Smile when it’s hard. And for goodness sakes, be brave. Love is never easy, but it’s worth it. I will probably not change her, but she changed me. Even if it was just because she was angry for the millionth time. 

Like I say, there really is beauty in everything you see. 

Until next time,

Rosie

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Beauty–the ugly truth

I’m not a big fan of the title. It needs some adjustment. For now, I’m very excited to have the first draft of a concept that snuck up and took my soul by surprise last night–society’s standards of beauty. I’ve gotten in a lot of deep conversations regarding the idea of beauty and how it’s applicable to that person’s ideology about women and men’s designs and nature. Here’s a little rhetorical piece about my feelings towards that concept. 

 

Too often I’ve been told,

between worn out words

and conversations stuck

to the bottom of too many regrets:

“a little paint

on the old barn

 never hurt anyone.”

But I’m telling you, I’m am not

weathered,

though this ship

has wrestled enough

hurricanes,

twisted itself free

from the rocks along the shore

enough times to know

it no longer wants to see

the inside of the barrel

of a sawed off shotgun,

no longer wants to feel the poison

of revenge

pulsing in the space

between soul and spine.

 

I know what the inside

of a concentration camp looks like

for  I have been aprisoner

inside my own tower of bitterness

for far too long.

My mind has fought off scarlet fever—

infectious to the crewmembers

trying so hard to breathe—

long enough to try to dig holes

in the spaces where good memories

should live;

and clearing it out

took every ounce of strength,

took the backhand

of a machete

in the deep woods of anger

to knock down the walls

that asphyxiated freedom

from bursting in my heart,

exploding as a rose

growing through the rocks

in the desert.

 

So I pulse this prayer,

clinging close to some-day hope

that this world will comprehend

that beauty’s definition

is expansive,

it does not run with fear,

it cannot be expelled by naysayers,

and that only when we add “I”

to beauty

do we find freedom,

for we cannot be free

when this oppressive world chooses

so desperately to callous our hearts

with ill-chosen ideologies that revolve

around the correct curvature of the spine,

the proper part of the lips ,

or the sly way in which a smile

creeps along the face

after low blows to the intellect.

 

Sometimes true magnificence

is found marginalized,

marketed by few,

for society’s standards

spell implosion,

suffocation,

and does not comprehend

the definition

of redemption,

and the beauty that comes

from battling our demons,

not hiding them beneath

layers of makeup,

and false advertising

to make the barn pretty.

 

Our souls slither

between the space

of soul and intellect,

initiating realization

that fairytales

do not always come

pre-packaged,

they burst forth beaming

from circumstance.

Rise forth, queens of pain

summon your strength

for you are strikingly stunning–

surreal–

and society only serves

to suck

self-esteem

from the ones who know not

that their beauty is deeper

than any critic

could ever tell them otherwise

so let’s become a pandemic,

and strike this world confused

with our hearts heaving,

beating beauty, with every breath. 

 

WeLove Movement

I have recently felt a desperate longing to come up with a page to help reach women and make them feel powerful, loved, beautiful again. To help combat the garbage that we encounter every day, and the lies that we are told like “you aren’t a good enough wife if you don’t do x” and “you’ll never be good enough.” They just keep building up. I’m sick of seeing broken women lining the streets. To see downtrodden, abused members of society because no one took the time to tell them they are worth someone. So, I assembled a group of powerful women to impact this world. 

 

Let’s make this a MOVEMENT. Not a dream. Stand with me today. Share this page with those who need it. And let’s get to changing the world. I’m ready. Are you? 

 

https://www.facebook.com/WeloveMovement?skip_nax_wizard=true

“The truth from the streets of every city you live in”

I have an entire series of poems I want to build upon this with. I have had them in the back of my mind for over a year, so I’m excited to delve into them. Please comment! 

 

From the pages of her body

she is the wind in his sails,

remaining a zypher,

a calm before the storm,

only turning into a hurricane

when the sharks

come out to play,

to transform her literature

into dog-eared writing

used to pass the time

while doing ungodly things

in the restroom.

There is poetry

hidden beneath

her bone structure,

found below the shelf

that is her breastbone.

There is more beauty

in her heart than those

who own her give her,

thrusting their decrepit bodies

against her,

starving for their share

of the meat.

 

She does not deny that her smile

hangs on her face

like a crooked addition

to a broken night sky

full of copper,

a satirical shape

in the promise of death

she carries around

like bad breath

and her mind is closed off

like road blocks,

sectioned off by labels

that brand her,

ruin her,

tell her she is worthless

because she’ll always

be a whore.

 

She does not attempt

to negate any of these

accusations,

only allows her legs to remain

the trenches of warfare,

that fondly familiar place

–work.

 

and though they might try

to convince her otherwise,

her body is a beautiful work of art

strung along like a windchime of bones

her hips whispers of the wind

silently singing secrets

to the birds.

but no one can see

that her lips are graveyards

a testament to the troubles

this world has pressed

and stamped her full of

as ugly as a newspaper,

ink smudging on your fingers.

She thinks the only way

she can leave an imprint

on your heart

is by slamming that ink into you,

bite you in the vena cava

with her array of poisonous

words.

 

Because it’s all she has left.

Her memories hanging

in the ceiling beams

that rest above the headboards

because that’s the only place

she’s ever made

anything worth remembering

because no one ever told her

that she’s beautiful

and that she’s worth,

so much more

than the street venom

she fills her cavities with

every day

of her lonely, lonely existence.

 

Her spirit cries out.

Desperation.

Finding peace in a world full of hate.

It always brings the demons back.  Sometimes I can hear the memories in the floorboard, slipping along the sunsets like a burnt out cigarette end. I can feel the pulse of the restless creaking, for it does not lull me to sleep any longer. It only signals the rising unrest felt between the sheets at night. Been this way for a while now—life has been all too frequently resembling something like poison-laced heroin. Oh god, it feels so good going in, rushing around the stem of my brain like the most beautiful sludge of ungodliness, until time settles in.  Until I remember that I don’t know what I’m aiming for, all I know is the vision of the future and I don’t know how to get there. And my toes curl at the joy I feel until I remember the choke of depression, tight on my vocal cords, shutting out the desire to speak. At all. To anyone. It has always been this way.  It’s like a rhythmic pulse of the underlying current in my life. For a while I can hold my head above the wreckage, until my bones become dry from not being plunged beneath the water. Sometimes I play around with my sanity, listen to it clanking boldly against the inner workings of my brain and realize deep down that, thankfully, at least I am not much like this world. I don’t need to breathe in the pollution to know what fresh air looks like, but maybe I’ve just been trying this whole time, too hard, to not feel senseless. So I fill myself up with all these memories of happiness, try to hallucinate on images of star filled skies and childhood laughter to make up for the deep sea of bad flashbacks I sometimes find myself consumed with.  I remember when my mom used to tell me that some suitcases were too heavy for me to carry as a child. Would shut me out when all I wanted was the truth, and she used to explain to me that sometimes children aren’t meant to know everything, we just have to wait until we are older to understand those burdens we carry around with us like boulders. Then a wildfire consumes my soul and I am reminded that she gave me the greatest burden of all to carry, and I wonder if she even saw the luggage she kept piling on my heart in the darkness. The irony life sometimes tosses our direction. It’s like an iron being pressed on your heart to smooth out all the wrinkles, but finding wretchedness in every corner, and you are left to wonder why it takes so much starch to make things right in your life. The realization that sometimes it takes a lot of heat and pain and suffering to make something beautiful again. To find the masterpiece that is found beyond the imperfections. Such a wilderness we find sometimes in the crevices of our brain when we delve into why we feel such wreckage at a sound. Curious things we find behind closed doors, or traps we thought we closed a long time ago. And then I remember that last week, God told me that he never meant for me to carry those burdens, but they were given to me, and He was sorry. And I wept, deep into my lungs I felt the heavings, the mending I have attempted a million times with friendships, late nights kissing necks in the dark, and desperate failed realizations that the bottom of a barrel of vodka isn’t a healing agent. The tears on my cheeks felt like rain in a desert, a well that needed escaping from the confines of life to burst forth and be free. I laid that baggage down at the cross, my last desperate attempt to be removed from captivity as a slave to the mind.

 

I can’t say that healing has been found completely. Or that I don’t look down at the insides of my heart and don’t see a little super glue still oozing from the stuck-together shards of my recently formed being. I still wake up a lot of mornings and try to pick up that familiar luggage again, hoping to breathe in the scent of pain again so I have an excuse to hold close when life is too hard for me to handle. So I can lean back on these past wars deep in my veins to explain to others why I sometimes struggle, as if struggling isn’t somehow innately human. I guess that somewhere along the search for healing I began the quest for everlasting perfection. I’m not the only one who has done so. The more people I meet along the way who have a checklist of pain sprawled in their sock drawer, the more I come face to face with the understanding that perfection is often looked at as a substitute that might suddenly be the beginning of an immaculate, beautiful existence. Suddenly. Why do we try to find such wholeness in attempting to complete ourselves with a mixture of insanity and impossible, unattainable goals? It’s just one more thing my mind haunts me with at night when I squeeze my eyes tight and try to rid my spinal cord of the weight of a million pressures I waged against this afternoon. Another scream flinging itself at my ear drums violently, hoping to make me aware of the hundreds of ways I fell short again. Today.. Somehow, our humanly feeble attempts at finding flawlessness in a world oriented in hate, only makes us more desperately cognitive of how far we fall short. I have to believe somewhere inside of me that God knew we would try to find healing in the way we run our lives. That we would try to find grace in the way we handled ourselves in public and that deep down we would hope it would fix those charred remains of our forests just before the fire. And He knew he had to make us imperfect, or we wouldn’t need help living our lives to the fullest of it’s capabilities. We would think that because we could win the war, we didn’t need people or relationships or to feel connected to anything else in the world that wasn’t neat and orderly and perfect puzzle pieces of sanity to tie in with the beautiful white floor in the kitchen. Maybe when we all stop trying to attain these unnatural expectations of beauty and health and imagination and just start being something other than insignificant, is when we actually begin to be memorable. And maybe at that exact moment when we allow ourselves to be set free from all of the unnatural expectations placed upon us from the moment we shot out of our mother’s womb, we are able to find ourselves amidst the rubble, we are able to expand our minds to accept the necessary connectedness each one of us is made for. There is music in your voice and the only way it can be heard is by unlocking the shackles around your feet and dancing amidst the tribes. Joining in the call of nature to love and to end the hate we see all around us like a virus.  And there is beauty in admitting our inadequacies, slamming our fists along the pavement, and finding life in the revolt. I dare you, to live walking against the current, even if that means coming close to being run over by traffic. Because at least, honey, you dared to live a little.