Why I Like Old Cemeteries

If anybody else is there they can't really blame you for it or get upset if you're crying for no apparent reason - they'll just assume it's cause somebody died and you miss them.

Little to no traffic/car exhaust to gag on.

Fresh air and open, but not too open space.

Feeling connected - it's a place to rub up against history and imagine what peoples lives where like and how this and that person with the same name were related.

Reading gravestones is like people watching, only less chance of being caught.

It's a peaceful place to walk.

Feeling like a natural part of the cycle of life.

Being reminded life is finite and to make the most of it.

The Moon

A distant friend,
who never laughs,
or sheds a tear.
Who never cries,
or truly smiles.
Her's is a lonely life,
but so simple,
without a care.

Sexual Assault Awareness Month

The poem below is written in honor of April begin sexual assault awareness month. Most people never talk about these things, but you probably know at least one person who has lived this. Women and men, young and old, all demographic of people are both directly and indirectly effected by sexual assault, but many will never tell their stories. Would you be willing to listen if they did?

trigger warning: this poem talks about sexual assault.

One touch

He wanted her

led to another

his hands across her skin

she didn't like it

he'd get what he wanted

pushing away

he liked her feisty

only encouraged him

he'd take what he wanted

to get what he wanted

despite her tears.

despite her pain.

Midnight Chatter

Are you listening,

in the night,

as I whisper,

secret fears?

This is when,

I should be sleeping.

I can tell,

because I cry,

when I catch you,

closing eyes,

and drifting off,

to that elusive,

land of sleep.

Letter to Myself

Dear Self,

One day you will see how important you are. One day you will believe it when someone says “I love you” or “you're beautiful” or “you're worth it.”

I know you mean it when you say those things, but sometimes it's so hard to believe. I want to be the smart, strong, beautiful woman you say I am. I want to be confident in myself. But...

I know it's hard to believe now, but one day you will see. You're already starting to. You know you want to believe it, to understand yourself that way, and that's the first step to getting there. One day you'll realize you don't just want to believe it; you'll know it's true.

You are strong. You're smart. You're beautiful. You're powerful. You might not believe it, but it's true. And, if you look deep enough, you're confident too. You know you are all these things and more. You deny it, but you know it.

I can be... but...

I don't feel worth it. I want to be. I want to be worth it. I want to love myself as much as you say I deserve to be loved. I want to be happy with myself. I want to celebrate who I am, but so often I can't until someone tells me to.

But you are worth it. You know you are. Right now you need someone to tell you you are important, but one day you'll know it and believe it all on your own. One day you will tell yourself that and it will be true. One day you will stop doubting yourself, and then you will be truly free, truly alive, and whole.

I like the sound of “one day.” I want to tell it to come faster, but some how I think that would slow it down.

So smile and enjoy the journey. You're worth it, and I'm here if you need me.

Love,

Me

This post was inspired by the daily prompt "One day, . . . " and a suggestion to write a letter about why writing is important to you/a letter of encouragement to yourself (both from A Writer's Book of Days). I thought it was just an odd reflection on myself and no one else would really relate to it, but after a couple of my writing buddies told me they could relate to it I decided I should post it.

How much do you love me?

How much do you love me?

Do you love me enough,

to hug away my tears,

to hold me when I cry,

to put me on my feet,

when everything feels wrong?

Do you love me enough,

to know who I am,

and still be there,

even when I cry,

for no reason at all?

Do you love me enough,

to stay by my side,

when I've lost track,

of who I am

and what I want?

Do you love me enough,

to catch me when I fall,

stop the out of control,

downward spiral

of my crashing mood?

Do you love me enough,

to be worthy of my trust,

to keep me safe

and not break my heart,

if I let you touch it?

True Friend

wrapping me with love

drying tears of pain and hurt

tight hugs holding me

prompt: write a haiku about someone important to you.

Sepia

A black and white photo,

shades of sepia, really,

capturing memories,

of nervous giggles,

childishly sophisticated,

declaring myself grown-up,

sharing intimate giggles,

loosened up by drinks,

blurred shades creating,

false closeness among strangers,

and yet it feels just right.

Wonderful Weekend Craziness

This weekend was fabulous. I spent the whole weekend at a Leadership Now Justice Summit and reunion with some of my favorite people. It was awesome - great conversations, great workshops, great people, and just the right mix of meaningful and funny moments. It kept me busy and gave me a lot to think about, but I'm happy to say I some how managed to keep up with my writing in between everything else.

I won't subject anybody to my in-cohesive rambling in response to Friday's prompt (Write about Sunday afternoon). I've also decided my writing from Saturday (Write about a time someone said no) is too personal to share. Today's writing is also really random, rambling and in-cohesive, but I'm going to share it anyway since it's vaguely related to this weekend..


Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: You're standing in a doorway.

I'm standing in the doorway. Waiting for something. A push to move forward. An invitation in. it's like I'm on the edge of living. Not confident enough to step into the room, but wanting to enjoy the party. Like there's an invisible wall, a bubble keeping me out. I can look through the doorway, but I don't know how to step through, or maybe I'm not sure which way I'm goin, which side of the door I want to be on, I could step to one side or the other, but I don't know which to go to, or maybe I'm at the end of the hall where I'm surround by doors and I don't know which to take. I could stand up boldly for justice and sacrifice everything, if I could be brave enough. Or I could wonder along on the edge of things, subtlely hinting I believe there could be better for the world but never loud enough or brave enough to scream it from the roof tops. I could say the world is more important than me, or I could put myself, my education, my learning first for now, and hope someday I can pay it forward and more. I could step through the door and declare my faith, announce what I believe and try to impact the world, but maybe I like it in the hall, listening in to six conversations, pulling what I need from each. Maybe my place is in the hall, reaching a hand into each room, connecting people who would never step out of their four sided box rooms. Maybe if I stand in the hall and talk to the children as they're funneled towards their parents closed off rooms they'll see what I see from the hall and maybe some day the walls will fall. Maybe the doorway is the place to be.

Ash

I hate,
how fast,
my mood,
can crash,
like snips of paper,
consumed by flames,
shadows of joy,
whither away,
leaving me empty,
dust drifting aimlessly.

Giving in,
and giving up,
relinquishing control.

Unclenching fists,
to take a hand,
offered in love,
with words of wisdom.

Surrender not ending,
internal conflict,
help myself,
or fight for control?

Heart racing in fear,
have I done the right thing,
fought the right battle,
given in where I should?

I nervously swallow,
ironically fearing,
the very thing said to help,
chase away worry.

Untitled

warm and fuzzy,
bold red sweatshirt,
looking cheerful,
bright and happy,
to hide the pain,
tied up inside.

Cold

Cold and hollow,
left untied,
falling,
apart.
Am I,
really,
all alone,
stuck inside,
this hollow empty,
broken space?
My heart,
forgets,
how to,
be loved,
Wanting to,
remember how,
to love myself
broken and,
fragile as
I am.
Blindly,
reaching,
for escape,
from self-made,
traps and walls,
confining
weights,
hold,
my,
heart.

Hidden Beauty

liquid fills,
eyes not green,
not brown,
or maybe both...
drops of feeling,
melt through hazel,
words of truth,
cut straight to heart,
burns like salt,
tears upon a cut,
echos of romance,
clouding,
hollow heart,
confused by love,
hidden beauty,
embraced,
a glow of warmth,
confounding,
what is this thing,
this hidden beauty,
lost within,
and yet you see

I love you

little words,
said with simple,
sincerity,
every pint-sized hug,
proclaiming,
the truth of words,
not heard enough.

What Good is a Day?

What good is a day,
if nothing gets done,
if nothing's accomplished,
to say I'm proud of this?

What good is a day,
that's not being lived,
that's simply passed through,
without celebrating life?

What good is a day,
lived in a fog,
forgetting the meaning,
of living life to the full?

What good is a day,
wasted on worry,
filled with fear,
and marked by despair?

What good is a day,
when I feel this way?



Poetry Prompt - Write a poem using the following start: "What good is a day..."

What Do You Do?

What do you do?

When you know too much.

When you're bound in trust,
to keep a confidence,
that's none of your business,
but's told freely,
spilled honestly,
at your ear,
never to cross,
your lips.

What do you do?

When your gift is listening,
but what you hear,
is less a gift,
and more confounding,
troubling mind,
confusing heart.

Silence and secrets,
mingling uneasily,
with love and trust.

Respect denying,
it could be as bad,
as the words sounds,
but misdeeds burdening,
more than one love.

What do you do?

Breaking Through

I spent the past week as a volunteer counselor at church camp. There's nothing quite like going to camp - the great outdoors, the sunshine, the rain, the campfires, wearing the same muddy jeans all week, and *gasp* no computer!

Those of you that know me well know that leaving my computer for a whole week is a little traumatic for me. I'm used to spending every night online. I check facebook several times a day, frequently read friends blogs as soon as they post, and share more over IM than I ever say aloud.

I joke with my online friends about being addicted to the computer, but really it's not about having a screen in front of me. As easy as it is to get into the habit of sitting in front of the computer screen, the real addiction is to the instant connection with other people. Simply by logging online I make myself instantly available to anybody who might need me, and, perhaps more importantly, I have friends instantly at my fingertips almost any time I need them.

I realized this week as I took up the challenge of leaving my computer, that I depend on my online friends for instant affirmations. When I lack confidence in myself I count on my friends to tell me I'm worth while. If I don't think my writing is "good enough" I demand one of my writing buddies reads it as soon as possible, because I know they'll tell me it's better than I think it is. If I'm not sure about something, or am upset, or feeling down about something, I can usually find somebody online who understands what I'm going through, or at least can tell me it will be alright. And as long as I have online friends giving me confidence I don't need to find my own confidence.

As I spent the week camping I couldn't rely on the friends I usually chat with to give me confidence, so I was on my own. Some how I made it through the week without my computer, and I realized I was ok. I could find enough confidence in myself to get through the week, and to climb mountains, be a role model, get called a good counselor, find God in the silence, be comfort in the storm, learn from my campers, and connect with people I'll never totally forget while I was at it.

One Year Later: Claiming a Rainbow Umbrella

Nearly a year ago I wrote this blog post about attending the local Pridefest. It was the first Pridefest in my town and the first Pride event I attended. The festival itself wasn't all that different from any other festival, but, watching the scene at the gate, I was both appalled by the need for, and fascinated by the work of the Silent Witnesses, who were providing a human barrier against the verbal attacks being made by protesters. Listening to the festival goers, and Silent Witnesses, being verbally attacked, I promised myself that next year I would be there holding a rainbow umbrella (one of the identifying marks of a Silent Witness).

As I wrote about that day, I promised my readers I would work as a Silent Witness this year. Friends and strangers alike expressed encouragement and gratitude on my post, and told me how much they appreciated what I wrote. I had been afraid I would get negative feedback when I posted it, but the overwhelming positive response made me all the more determined to follow through with my promise.

After waiting all year to be a Silent Witness for the local Pridefest, I attended their training session. During the training their nonviolent, non confrontational, philosophy of peacekeeping was explained. They talked about what roles they need people to fill during events, and the importance of NOT visibly reacting to the protesters. Though any form of communication with the protesters is strictly off limits, the trainers explained that it's ok, and even encouraged, to talk to anyone else. I remembered many of the things they talked about from watching the Silent Witnesses at last years event.

Since the training I attended was only a few days before the local Pridefest, it included some discussion of what to expect at this specific event. When they showed a map of the park it was in, they pointed out the main gate and the secondary gate, explaining that the protesters didn't discover the back gate until late afternoon last year, but now that they knew about it they would likely be there earlier this year. As they pointed out the back gate I felt year-old negative emotions boiling up in me. I remembered walking to the back gate with the first Silent Witness assigned there after the protesters found it last year, and wondered if I could really do this.

The morning of the Pridefest I listened to my favorite politically minded music, and tried to prepare myself for the work I was about to do. Listening to the Michael Franti lyrics “They say you got to choose your side and when it's done, nobody right, nobody wrong.... ...tryin' to make a point or have the last word, but most the time people just tryin' to be heard....” I thought about the fact that as Silent Witnesses we're NOT to try to stop or silence the protesters. It's not our job to keep them quiet, it's our job to keep the peace, and protect everyone's rights, including the rights of the protesters, as distasteful as we might find the way they choose to use their right to free speech.

Though I was slightly nervous, I was mostly pumped up and excited to help. When I arrived at the check in station I proudly claimed my rainbow umbrella, and put on the bright orange safety vest with Silent Witness logos that would be my uniform as I worked. The rain in the morning had done more to scare away the protesters than it did to scare away the vendors, so things were quiet at the gate when I first went on duty. The Silent Witnesses stationed themselves around the gate, welcoming everyone with their colorful umbrellas and friendly greetings. When protesters began showing up we continued our job as welcomer, carefully positioning ourselves between the protesters and the path to the festival gates.

Before I knew it, I had been on duty for an hour and a half. I took a break to explore the festival, and when I returned there were a few protesters preaching to anyone in ear shot, and even more Silent Witnesses stationed around the entrance. I took up my umbrella and found a corner without as many Silent Witnesses to stand at. Word was casually being passed around that the rain would strike in about fifteen minutes, but we were already prepared with our umbrellas. For the next couple of hours I stood, umbrella in hand, with the other Silent Witnesses. We chuckled to ourselves over the illogical arguments made by the protesters, and grinned as the sudden downpours drowned out the protesters words, and made us glad to have our umbrellas.

As I stood there I felt hurt for the people being insulted by the protesters, but even more so I felt sad for the protesters. I believe God and Love are two forces that cannot be limited, and yet the protesters were trying to limit both, and truly believed what they were saying. Hearing the protesters ranting I couldn't help but wonder what version of the bible they read that says it's ok to judge, but the more frustrating thing was wishing I could convince them of how much bigger than their narrow definition God's love is, and knowing they wouldn't, perhaps couldn't even, believe it if I told them.


This entry is also posted on my political/social justice blog.

Witnessing Love

Fingering the purple band,
wound around my wrist,
I think of yesterdays events,
holding a rainbow,
in the pouring rain,
an umbrella of hope,
in the storm of hate,
love abused.

I'm sad for the insulted,
sadder for the insulter,
who's forgotten the music,
the tune of God's love.

This poem was inspired by my experience working as a Silent Witness at a local Pridefest.