I have this little four word phrase that I find myself saying over and over again. It shows up at the most painful of times, it show up at the best of times. It's a soft little admission that feels so good to type and feels even better saying.
"She's right you know."
So often my better half quietly keeps her truth to herself, while I remonstrate or jump up and down, explaining with vicious and unabashed judgement how "so and so" just judges everyone, or "you can't trust that guy, because all he does is talk behind peoples' backs." Blind to the simple, beautiful truths. Blind to my own blowhard, self-seeking bullshit.
And there she sits, quietly letting me make an ever bigger fool out of myself, still loving me, still nodding once in a while at the right moment, careful not to bruise my puffed out feathers or interfere with my "cock of the yard" strut.
But then, when all of my pomp and circumstance has dwindled, and my self important speeches have ended, and all the hot air has been retired from the balloon, she takes a careful breath and very simply, adeptly and honestly lets me know what the fuck. Not to hurt, but to enlighten. Not to admonish or belittle, but to expand and teach.
She is a real beauty, a real example of shining love stuff - borne of heaven and delicately stuffed into the physical being of a supermodel. Sometimes she is a Cree princess, not afraid to rough me up or anybody else for that matter, to make her point. Her sense of justice is impeccable. Her views on truth and psychology and philosophy and social contract and empowerment and growth and all that is interesting and real in this world are nearly always bang on true and accurate (I say nearly because to be right all the time would be maddening; I should know!).
She is mother like no other. A friend to all who need one. A beacon of truth and gentle compassionate understanding.
And I love her, till this heart beats no more, I love her. From beyond this mortal coil, I will love her, brush her hair from her face as the wind; caress her cheek as a gentle rain drop; hold her close as a mist, rolling in off the lake.
And for now, I must love her from afar. Slowly plodding through the baby steps that seem so great. Through the paces of early recovery. I want so badly to run to her, to hold her, to be her man instead of her sad broken addict boyfriend.
Patience young feller. Do a little work young feller. Get through a day or two, then perhaps a week or two, then maybe a month or two without picking up; without sabotaging your growth, healing or recovery. Pay a few bills and rebuild some of what you tried so desperately to destroy.
Then, show her some of your moves:
That oughta do it!
I love you baby.
S.
let love guide you to the freedom you deserve...
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Monday, September 12, 2011
Small world after all...
It's a world of laughter, a world of tears...
It's a world of hope and a world of fears...
There's so much that we share, and it's time we're aware,
It's a small world after all...
Grade 3, during the blur that was my elementary school years. I think it was St. Edmund's Catholic School where I spent all of four or five months. I was dressed in my buckskin, and even a little moosehide headband with black yarn braids. I was the Indian. Among little Dutch girls, boys in liederhosen, and all the colours of the rainbow. Was I the only one who felt shame? How terrible that I was ashamed to be Indian. How fucking terrible that a seven year old has to feel those feelings. Where did they come from? How does the purity and innocence of childhood become tainted by asshole things like shame and fear and the need to be liked over anything else?
Who knows...
Singing became a big part of my life. Always, always. My family were all musical - Kokom "Mother Maybelle" Edna, Uncle Vic and his lap steel patent and professional session time and road trips with the likes of Ferlin Husky, Anny Murray, and a bevy of country stars; Uncle Jimmy and his banjo, mando and fiddle, brylcreem pompadour and a smile that shone brighter than a National steel guitar. Uncle George, who I remember dancing in pantyhose and skirt, front partial plate taken out, but whose fiddle playing rose above his fashion sense and penchant for drunken showmanship.
My mom taught me my first song - how fitting that it was a Hank Williams tune, Blues Stay Away from Me. My uncle Rocky showed me some chops - a Carter family riff, a little Ghost Riders in the Sky, and these things sent me on the way to discovering a talent for song.
Soon, Dwayne Arlidge shared a little Black Dog with me and thus a love affair with Zeppelin was forged. Rob Wingo introduced me to Major Pentatonic scale and some 12-bar blues.
But it was my mom's record collection that really created my love of music. Jackson Browne - Running on Empty - a record recorded entirely on the road, some in hotel rooms, and one even on a bus (this is obviously not the bus recording, but such a groovy tune; the bus recording has the drummer playing a hi hat and a cardboard box with a footpedal as a bass drum, and you can hear the ol' Silver Eagle gear down in the background as it approaches a downhill turn).
Music transported me. I remember lying on the floor with some big ass Dolby headphones just sitting there listening to Jesus Christ Superstar, "I don't know how to looooooooove him..."
How I longed to be soothed by Jesus like Mary Magdalene. How he could touch her heart, this woman of the street. How he could rattle her to her core... I could relate.
I remember feeling so ripped off by the world. How could we continue to kill, stockpile arms, hurt our children, drink, fight, drug and steal when clearly the truth was laid bare before us by this humble Galileean some two thousand years before.
Music used to make me cry. Softly, gently, laying on my back, all of nine years old or ten or seven or even six: Warm salty tears sliding down my cheeks, ears and ragged mullet, finally gently laying to rest in our myriad shag carpets. Comforted me so deeply. Brought reason and timing, stories with starts and finishes, middles and denouments. Brought order to my chaos.
Funny, we sometimes had pretty meagre fridge contents, but shit we had music. Ozark Mountain Daredevils, Nana Mouskouri , Beach Boys , Charlie Daniels Band.
Lots of music, all kinds. All flavours. Rock, country, blues, classical, Indian Music - AWESOME Indian music I loved this band, this album, this song. Idyllic lifestyle, being one with the rivers, the woods, the deer and fish and sky and sun.
Even my dream last night. I was diving into crystal clear waters. Swimming with my crazy step daughter while her mom was all worried, chiding us from the bridge. Free. Alive. Tears and laughter.
I awoke to a sickness in my chest and a pain in my heart, fear and loathing in my brain and hurt in my stomach. All these beautiful things within this world, and I choose crackdens, the paranoid highway - eyes in the rearview, scoping the countryside, looking for cops, people following me. What the fuck.
I missed my trip to the mountains this weekend. So sad for me. How I treat myself. Fucker. The guy that's driving this train is really starting to piss me off.
I was just listening to that song from the last link: XIT, Plight of the Redman, At Peace, and watching the video. At the end it says, "For You Native Americans Looking for Peace. Just Go Home. Where Home is. And Peace Will Find You. Mother Earth is Waiting. Grandfathers are Watching."
So I cry yet again, knowing full well the words are true. How I could have dove in crystal waters. Friday night I sat in my truck, me and my little asshole friend hiding somewhere in the hood, alone and broke, yet again. I looked up at the moon, knowing she was shining down on my friends in the lodge out in the mountains. In my home. I knew the grandfathers were sad for me, that they missed me, but that the show would go on for those whose moccasins took them there. And then, I looked above, as my thoughts were strumming around all guilty-like and self loathingly, I realized the northern lights were dancing in a circle right above me. Despite my level best effort to hide from life and responsibility and spirituality and what is real in this universe, there they were, the Grandfathers and Grandmothers themselves, dancing like I've never seen them before.
I thought of my childhood and the pain and the poverty and the shit and the scum, but I remembered only the gold and the happy days and the joy and the laughter. I thought how amazing my life was. How blessed I was. What a gift was my miserly little life and the amazing gifts I have been handed to steward and share. How could I keep thumbing my nose to Creation and flipping the hurtin'est bird to my Creator and ancestors.
What is beautiful, is that they still love me. So dearly. I know it. I want to share my vision of the world with my family, with my kids.
For so many, this has been an amazing summer. I read my Facebook; I creep friends' pages. I see what fun you're all having.
For me, this has been the summer of shame.
But watch out mofos: It's going to be the Fall of the Fall of Selfishness and the Winter of my Contentment. And heretofore, a life of Hope Springs Eternal.
I'm not ashamed to wear the buckskin anymore you know... I love it. I'm ashamed of something else, and I don't know where it is or what it is, but I'll find it if I have to.
I was just offered a nice little fulltime job from someone who knows my shitty ass truths and has seen my shine. Someone who believes in me. I think I can follow his lead and believe in me too.
Love to you all.
S.
It's a world of hope and a world of fears...
There's so much that we share, and it's time we're aware,
It's a small world after all...
Grade 3, during the blur that was my elementary school years. I think it was St. Edmund's Catholic School where I spent all of four or five months. I was dressed in my buckskin, and even a little moosehide headband with black yarn braids. I was the Indian. Among little Dutch girls, boys in liederhosen, and all the colours of the rainbow. Was I the only one who felt shame? How terrible that I was ashamed to be Indian. How fucking terrible that a seven year old has to feel those feelings. Where did they come from? How does the purity and innocence of childhood become tainted by asshole things like shame and fear and the need to be liked over anything else?
Who knows...
Singing became a big part of my life. Always, always. My family were all musical - Kokom "Mother Maybelle" Edna, Uncle Vic and his lap steel patent and professional session time and road trips with the likes of Ferlin Husky, Anny Murray, and a bevy of country stars; Uncle Jimmy and his banjo, mando and fiddle, brylcreem pompadour and a smile that shone brighter than a National steel guitar. Uncle George, who I remember dancing in pantyhose and skirt, front partial plate taken out, but whose fiddle playing rose above his fashion sense and penchant for drunken showmanship.
My mom taught me my first song - how fitting that it was a Hank Williams tune, Blues Stay Away from Me. My uncle Rocky showed me some chops - a Carter family riff, a little Ghost Riders in the Sky, and these things sent me on the way to discovering a talent for song.
Soon, Dwayne Arlidge shared a little Black Dog with me and thus a love affair with Zeppelin was forged. Rob Wingo introduced me to Major Pentatonic scale and some 12-bar blues.
But it was my mom's record collection that really created my love of music. Jackson Browne - Running on Empty - a record recorded entirely on the road, some in hotel rooms, and one even on a bus (this is obviously not the bus recording, but such a groovy tune; the bus recording has the drummer playing a hi hat and a cardboard box with a footpedal as a bass drum, and you can hear the ol' Silver Eagle gear down in the background as it approaches a downhill turn).
Music transported me. I remember lying on the floor with some big ass Dolby headphones just sitting there listening to Jesus Christ Superstar, "I don't know how to looooooooove him..."
How I longed to be soothed by Jesus like Mary Magdalene. How he could touch her heart, this woman of the street. How he could rattle her to her core... I could relate.
I remember feeling so ripped off by the world. How could we continue to kill, stockpile arms, hurt our children, drink, fight, drug and steal when clearly the truth was laid bare before us by this humble Galileean some two thousand years before.
Music used to make me cry. Softly, gently, laying on my back, all of nine years old or ten or seven or even six: Warm salty tears sliding down my cheeks, ears and ragged mullet, finally gently laying to rest in our myriad shag carpets. Comforted me so deeply. Brought reason and timing, stories with starts and finishes, middles and denouments. Brought order to my chaos.
Funny, we sometimes had pretty meagre fridge contents, but shit we had music. Ozark Mountain Daredevils, Nana Mouskouri , Beach Boys , Charlie Daniels Band.
Lots of music, all kinds. All flavours. Rock, country, blues, classical, Indian Music - AWESOME Indian music I loved this band, this album, this song. Idyllic lifestyle, being one with the rivers, the woods, the deer and fish and sky and sun.
Even my dream last night. I was diving into crystal clear waters. Swimming with my crazy step daughter while her mom was all worried, chiding us from the bridge. Free. Alive. Tears and laughter.
I awoke to a sickness in my chest and a pain in my heart, fear and loathing in my brain and hurt in my stomach. All these beautiful things within this world, and I choose crackdens, the paranoid highway - eyes in the rearview, scoping the countryside, looking for cops, people following me. What the fuck.
I missed my trip to the mountains this weekend. So sad for me. How I treat myself. Fucker. The guy that's driving this train is really starting to piss me off.
I was just listening to that song from the last link: XIT, Plight of the Redman, At Peace, and watching the video. At the end it says, "For You Native Americans Looking for Peace. Just Go Home. Where Home is. And Peace Will Find You. Mother Earth is Waiting. Grandfathers are Watching."
So I cry yet again, knowing full well the words are true. How I could have dove in crystal waters. Friday night I sat in my truck, me and my little asshole friend hiding somewhere in the hood, alone and broke, yet again. I looked up at the moon, knowing she was shining down on my friends in the lodge out in the mountains. In my home. I knew the grandfathers were sad for me, that they missed me, but that the show would go on for those whose moccasins took them there. And then, I looked above, as my thoughts were strumming around all guilty-like and self loathingly, I realized the northern lights were dancing in a circle right above me. Despite my level best effort to hide from life and responsibility and spirituality and what is real in this universe, there they were, the Grandfathers and Grandmothers themselves, dancing like I've never seen them before.
I thought of my childhood and the pain and the poverty and the shit and the scum, but I remembered only the gold and the happy days and the joy and the laughter. I thought how amazing my life was. How blessed I was. What a gift was my miserly little life and the amazing gifts I have been handed to steward and share. How could I keep thumbing my nose to Creation and flipping the hurtin'est bird to my Creator and ancestors.
What is beautiful, is that they still love me. So dearly. I know it. I want to share my vision of the world with my family, with my kids.
For so many, this has been an amazing summer. I read my Facebook; I creep friends' pages. I see what fun you're all having.
For me, this has been the summer of shame.
But watch out mofos: It's going to be the Fall of the Fall of Selfishness and the Winter of my Contentment. And heretofore, a life of Hope Springs Eternal.
I'm not ashamed to wear the buckskin anymore you know... I love it. I'm ashamed of something else, and I don't know where it is or what it is, but I'll find it if I have to.
I was just offered a nice little fulltime job from someone who knows my shitty ass truths and has seen my shine. Someone who believes in me. I think I can follow his lead and believe in me too.
Love to you all.
S.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Father... Oh Father. Part II
Hm. What a day. Two or three days of positive choices and a little bit of food and sleep, and so quickly we forget. Forget what travesties we have committed. Forget what pain we have felt or caused or both...
We forget.
Tonight I went down to a fellowship meeting to remind me. It comes flooding back, real and visceral and painful and sad, but then the obligatory dance step comes a rushin' to the surface. Shuck and jive, shuck and jive... A yadda-ta-dadda-ta-dadda-ta-Da... A-yadda-ta-dadda-ta-dadda-da-Da...
Maybe one more time... One more ride on the crazy train.
Fuck that.
Some amazing things came flying out of the woodwork today. Work stuff, personal development stuff, spiritual stuff, truths, admissions of guilt and shame, realizations of what is real and what is fucked and what is beautiful and true.
And all I have is three days under my belt. Well, in a row that is.
My friend is not home right now. Likely drinking. I smudged his house yesterday. Beautifully from bottom to top, closets, drawers, haunted rooms and coked up rooms; he was so scared the other night. Bleeding ulcers is my diagnosis but what the fuck do I know.
"Stopping drinking man; that's the only way I think," says I.
So yesterday he has Diet Pepsi. Good on you D.
Today, nobody's home, and his truck's here. Door unlocked too. Weird. Hope nothing terrible happened. But alone I am, facebooking, chatting, planning, plotting secret birthday celebrations, getaway spiritual weekends; just me and the cats.
And yet... Smudge notwithstanding, I still am uncomfortable in my own skin. My babies are not here with me due to my DIRECT FUCKING ACTIONS... guiltguiltguilt... shameshameshame...
Alone, in a basement with a cat staring at me like I'm a chocolate covered turd and I feel like a big shithead. Feel. Don't want to feel. Maybe I should... Hm.. I still have twentyseven phone numbers committed to memory; I can be euphoric (for two seconds) in ten minutes. But then paranoid, delusional, fearful, scared and fucked right up in a minute shortly following my crash.
Then I have stepped in and circumvented the Hand of God. The guiding hand of Creator is not good enough for me, and I self medicate yet again. Then likely wake up tomorrow late, miss my morning meeting, feel jittery and guilty and bomb my afternoon meeting, then miss my wife's birthday, and deny myself the chance to walk into the mountains with my spirit guides and snuggle up with 68 indians and spirits and teachers and helpers and all that is beautiful and humble and real in our culture.
And all I have to do is spend twenty bucks on some more street bullshit. All this and more self loathing, shame and blame on self.
Hm. How bout "no". How bout I show myself that I can tough it through this little ripple in the pond and step proudly and humbly into the light this coming weekend? Shine and smile and cry and sing and eat and laugh and cry some more...
If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine. Would you hear my voice come through the music? Would you hold it near as it were your own?
Jerry, RIP and help me make it through the night without using. Help me make it to the mountains tomorrow and to the sweet gentle hand of my love and her family.
Tonight, a father's responsible decision. A broken child's old pattern breaking. A battle of tears and pride and softness and protective arms. That path is for your steps alone. No simple highway between the dawn and the dark of night.
Fuck me. This ain't easy shit.
It's not what you do when you're on stage that counts. It's when no one's looking. I love you baby.
Happy birthday to the most beautiful woman I know. I am blessed by your love.
S + T forever... TL4Ever
xox
S.
We forget.
Tonight I went down to a fellowship meeting to remind me. It comes flooding back, real and visceral and painful and sad, but then the obligatory dance step comes a rushin' to the surface. Shuck and jive, shuck and jive... A yadda-ta-dadda-ta-dadda-ta-Da... A-yadda-ta-dadda-ta-dadda-da-Da...
Maybe one more time... One more ride on the crazy train.
Fuck that.
Some amazing things came flying out of the woodwork today. Work stuff, personal development stuff, spiritual stuff, truths, admissions of guilt and shame, realizations of what is real and what is fucked and what is beautiful and true.
And all I have is three days under my belt. Well, in a row that is.
My friend is not home right now. Likely drinking. I smudged his house yesterday. Beautifully from bottom to top, closets, drawers, haunted rooms and coked up rooms; he was so scared the other night. Bleeding ulcers is my diagnosis but what the fuck do I know.
"Stopping drinking man; that's the only way I think," says I.
So yesterday he has Diet Pepsi. Good on you D.
Today, nobody's home, and his truck's here. Door unlocked too. Weird. Hope nothing terrible happened. But alone I am, facebooking, chatting, planning, plotting secret birthday celebrations, getaway spiritual weekends; just me and the cats.
And yet... Smudge notwithstanding, I still am uncomfortable in my own skin. My babies are not here with me due to my DIRECT FUCKING ACTIONS... guiltguiltguilt... shameshameshame...
Alone, in a basement with a cat staring at me like I'm a chocolate covered turd and I feel like a big shithead. Feel. Don't want to feel. Maybe I should... Hm.. I still have twentyseven phone numbers committed to memory; I can be euphoric (for two seconds) in ten minutes. But then paranoid, delusional, fearful, scared and fucked right up in a minute shortly following my crash.
Then I have stepped in and circumvented the Hand of God. The guiding hand of Creator is not good enough for me, and I self medicate yet again. Then likely wake up tomorrow late, miss my morning meeting, feel jittery and guilty and bomb my afternoon meeting, then miss my wife's birthday, and deny myself the chance to walk into the mountains with my spirit guides and snuggle up with 68 indians and spirits and teachers and helpers and all that is beautiful and humble and real in our culture.
And all I have to do is spend twenty bucks on some more street bullshit. All this and more self loathing, shame and blame on self.
Hm. How bout "no". How bout I show myself that I can tough it through this little ripple in the pond and step proudly and humbly into the light this coming weekend? Shine and smile and cry and sing and eat and laugh and cry some more...
If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine. Would you hear my voice come through the music? Would you hold it near as it were your own?
Jerry, RIP and help me make it through the night without using. Help me make it to the mountains tomorrow and to the sweet gentle hand of my love and her family.
Tonight, a father's responsible decision. A broken child's old pattern breaking. A battle of tears and pride and softness and protective arms. That path is for your steps alone. No simple highway between the dawn and the dark of night.
Fuck me. This ain't easy shit.
It's not what you do when you're on stage that counts. It's when no one's looking. I love you baby.
Happy birthday to the most beautiful woman I know. I am blessed by your love.
S + T forever... TL4Ever
xox
S.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Father... Oh Father. Part I
I write today from the bottom of a long steep hill that I have allowed myself to tumble down. I write today, alone, away from my family, my children, my love. I write today because no one will talk to me. All they have ever heard from me are words. I write today as though I am speaking to my love, because she can't bring herself to hear anymore lies and excuses from my mouth anymore.
So much happening in the world around me, the world that I keep ducking out of.
Life.
Simple sometimes. The best things in life are so simple. Like becoming a father. Simple. Being one? Not so much.
At least not for me. Not right now. My heart is just fucking broked... Just fucking broked all up because of how I have treated my kids. Every single one of them. I have done everything possible to strain the ties between us all.
All I ever wanted to be is a dad. I remember being small and my dad not being there, how alone and afraid and unworthy I felt. How I thought, "If I was a Dad, I would hold my son so tight..." or "I will never leave my kids... Ever..."
Bullshit.
At least my dad only ever left once.
I keep leaving, over and over again. "No really, this time I mean it... I will be right back." Poof.
Fuckin' guy. What kind of fuckin' guy have I become?
I respect all those men out there who are there, day in and day out for their families. Men who sacrifice of themselves, give of their hearts and bodies so that others may live better, easier. Real daddies. Not dickheads.
I'm pretty sure I have it in me. Reasonably sure.
I will write this evening to you my love. Because I don't have to you speak to right now. Because you are protecting those you love and yourself... Protecting them from a wolf in daddy's clothing.
I will write some more tomorrow. I am so sleepy. Running and running and running from responsibility and truth and honour and faith and love and all that is good in the world really takes its toll on a body.
Love to you.
S.
So much happening in the world around me, the world that I keep ducking out of.
Life.
Simple sometimes. The best things in life are so simple. Like becoming a father. Simple. Being one? Not so much.
At least not for me. Not right now. My heart is just fucking broked... Just fucking broked all up because of how I have treated my kids. Every single one of them. I have done everything possible to strain the ties between us all.
All I ever wanted to be is a dad. I remember being small and my dad not being there, how alone and afraid and unworthy I felt. How I thought, "If I was a Dad, I would hold my son so tight..." or "I will never leave my kids... Ever..."
Bullshit.
At least my dad only ever left once.
I keep leaving, over and over again. "No really, this time I mean it... I will be right back." Poof.
Fuckin' guy. What kind of fuckin' guy have I become?
I respect all those men out there who are there, day in and day out for their families. Men who sacrifice of themselves, give of their hearts and bodies so that others may live better, easier. Real daddies. Not dickheads.
I'm pretty sure I have it in me. Reasonably sure.
I will write this evening to you my love. Because I don't have to you speak to right now. Because you are protecting those you love and yourself... Protecting them from a wolf in daddy's clothing.
I will write some more tomorrow. I am so sleepy. Running and running and running from responsibility and truth and honour and faith and love and all that is good in the world really takes its toll on a body.
Love to you.
S.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Today: I love, therefore I am...
Hi. Been a while. So the smartypants expectation that I would and could sustain a daily sober counter accompanied by some prosaic wisdom or poetic weaving has been proven wrong. Once again, I have proven that my words can very easily outweigh my actions.
Oh well. Shit happens.
I could get all "oh, the sorrow of it all..." or "oh, poor Sheldon let himself down again..." or even use it as an excuse to imagine myself a failure and keep on keepin' on in a downward direction until I have taken a final pull on the devil's dick and this unbelievably strong heart just rolls over in exasperation and quietly says "Ekosi maka."
Strong heart indeed. The things I have done, the things I have seen, the things I have put myself through. <sigh> Oh my.
I yearn today, this moment, to be kind to myself. Looking outside, the blue sky, the green grass, the ringing sound of children's voices: These are the things I would long for when I was at the end of yet another rope.
Or these were the things I chose to ignore when I was en route for another score, from my dark, lonely hiding place in the bush in a beeline to the inner city, then scurrying back to my hole - truck on fumes, smoking cigarette butts from my ashtray, picking up and tasting sesame seeds, snot particles or styrofoam from the carpet of the Chev, checking to see if they were more of that bogus, smelly rock that's being passed off as crack... Nice... way to cherish the universe and spread the love Mr. Hughes.
Well, I am here, I am clean and I will write when I am able, inspired, feeling too much, wanting to share... et cetera, et cetera.
I don't need any more pressure in my life to expect to sit down and carve out an hour each day to wax on and on, shedding light on the trainwreck that I had been trying to live and call a life. It's only part of the story anyways.
I won't show you all my scars, all my fears... I won't tell you all the hardwired action stories or all of the sad, painful or insipid truths. This is not a barometer from which you can gauge all that I am or all that I want to be.
This blog was started because I thought having a thousand eyes (or even twenty) on me would help keep me accountable, help keep me home.
Wrong.
It is the love that I feel and allow to flow through me that keeps me here, keeps me from calling all the dealers that pretend to be my friends and then sell me horse tranquilizer laced bullshit, or some concoction that tastes like transmission fluid and rubber gloves mixed together. Death in a baggie.
Bleah.
Life is a blessed event that is ever transformative, ever fluid and dancing, and can be missed if you blink.
Today, God willing, I will not blink. I will not avert my gaze from that which is real, true and suffused with love and light.
Today I will live and walk with Creator as my guide. Today I will hold hands with a big, juicy family who loves their daddy/hubby and we will allow our steps to be guided by a Heritage Festival food map!
Bring on the sheepkebabs!
hearts and smooches,
S.
Oh well. Shit happens.
I could get all "oh, the sorrow of it all..." or "oh, poor Sheldon let himself down again..." or even use it as an excuse to imagine myself a failure and keep on keepin' on in a downward direction until I have taken a final pull on the devil's dick and this unbelievably strong heart just rolls over in exasperation and quietly says "Ekosi maka."
Strong heart indeed. The things I have done, the things I have seen, the things I have put myself through. <sigh> Oh my.
I yearn today, this moment, to be kind to myself. Looking outside, the blue sky, the green grass, the ringing sound of children's voices: These are the things I would long for when I was at the end of yet another rope.
Or these were the things I chose to ignore when I was en route for another score, from my dark, lonely hiding place in the bush in a beeline to the inner city, then scurrying back to my hole - truck on fumes, smoking cigarette butts from my ashtray, picking up and tasting sesame seeds, snot particles or styrofoam from the carpet of the Chev, checking to see if they were more of that bogus, smelly rock that's being passed off as crack... Nice... way to cherish the universe and spread the love Mr. Hughes.
Well, I am here, I am clean and I will write when I am able, inspired, feeling too much, wanting to share... et cetera, et cetera.
I don't need any more pressure in my life to expect to sit down and carve out an hour each day to wax on and on, shedding light on the trainwreck that I had been trying to live and call a life. It's only part of the story anyways.
I won't show you all my scars, all my fears... I won't tell you all the hardwired action stories or all of the sad, painful or insipid truths. This is not a barometer from which you can gauge all that I am or all that I want to be.
This blog was started because I thought having a thousand eyes (or even twenty) on me would help keep me accountable, help keep me home.
Wrong.
It is the love that I feel and allow to flow through me that keeps me here, keeps me from calling all the dealers that pretend to be my friends and then sell me horse tranquilizer laced bullshit, or some concoction that tastes like transmission fluid and rubber gloves mixed together. Death in a baggie.
Bleah.
Life is a blessed event that is ever transformative, ever fluid and dancing, and can be missed if you blink.
Today, God willing, I will not blink. I will not avert my gaze from that which is real, true and suffused with love and light.
Today I will live and walk with Creator as my guide. Today I will hold hands with a big, juicy family who loves their daddy/hubby and we will allow our steps to be guided by a Heritage Festival food map!
Bring on the sheepkebabs!
hearts and smooches,
S.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Today: Blast from the Past...
Haven't written in a week. Trying to find some solace in action, not the words. No energy right now. It's coming. Slowly, coming.
No day counter. Too much pressure. There is just today. Only, always just today.
Today I am writing for a friend. For me too, but for a friend, who so quietly reached out and asked politely for a glimpse into my soul, into my storm. Not knowing why but it doesn't matter. Funny. When our friends need us, sometimes we can just give without asking why, without expecting anything in return.
Sometimes we can't. Sometimes it's our family, those closest to us, who spurn us, deny us, turn away for this reason or that. Sometimes it hurts but more often than not it don't even register anymore. We've been spurned for so long.
"Yeah, yeah," we say to ourselves, "I didn't 'spect you to come anyways. Just had to ask you know."
More often than not I kid myself that it doesn't hurt. It hurts like fucking hell.
My friend politely reminded me I've undertaken a yearlong blog expedition and that she wants some of this action.
Hmph.
Well, just to show her what's what, I will cut and paste something from the annals of our conversations and emails that captures some of what I feel, what I think, what I know... right here, right now. (I hope you are not upset that I am sharing this...)
These unexpected obstacles that slow us down, they cause us to reflect on what's important. These are what help us to see our true selves: Our true natures. It's tough cuz the pot doesn't help us at all.. Only hurts us. It's hard to see it while we're in it, but by helping us "relax", it actually prolongs the agony. Our relaxation is premised on the silky, green dragon smoke's ability to cloak our problems, to mask them in a green-tinged mockery of true love. "YEah mon, it's all good mon... " When really, inside, we're hurting, sad, scared, lonely beyond our comprehension, and just ACHING for real expression, real happiness, just REAL in general. And sometimes, real sucks; real hurts. Real is not exciting, not immediately fulfilling. Most times real is just a pain in the ass. But it is real.
That is what we yearn for. To find our real place in this world. A place where we belong. Where we can feel love. The real secret is that all along, while we may be looking for a geographical location or perfect job or relationship to discover that love, it only exists in one place: in our hearts. We just have to choose to unlock it. To discard that which keeps us mired in guilt, shame, fear, doubt, etc. To make an ACTIVE decision to love and accept love.
Sweetheart, I hate to be a broken record, but true enlightenment and understanding and all that love is only possible when we are clean and sober. When we have stared the gaunt and sombre eyes of the tiger that is our craving, and taken back the ownership of our soul.
"No," she said, "I will NOT succumb to you oh mangy and flea bitten tiger, whose eyes shimmer with the glaze of physical pleasure. I will not hide behind the promise you give with your temporary salvation, your short lived pleasure. I will instead surrender to these feelings of fear and doubt, and in that unique position of surrender, I will feel the unexpected strength that flows from the mountain, the snow; the waters and the sky. The strength that comforts me with the recognition that the very same strength courses through my veins and makes up the seat of my soul. I am one with the universe, and the universe is one with me. And it is love, sweet love, that ties me to this plane; that connects me to all and caresses my bare feet as they touch the ground. I choose today to honour my body, mind and soul by staying pure and treating myself with love."
So fuck you devil weed; fuck you coca plant; fuck you cancer sticks.. fuck you sweet alcoholic vapours! I choose today to celebrate my life with a few chocolate chip cookies out of the oven and some green tea. And maybe a little word of thanks to my ancestors, in whose steps I humbly walk, and to those yet to arrive, whose way I hope is gentle.
I choose today to honour this planet and this life in the best way I know how: by learning to listen to my heart.
And tonight, when I lay my head down in my soft bed, between the sheets and eagerly anticipating my dreams, after I have given thanks for making it through this day and showing myself love, I ask that I have the power, will and wherewithal to do the same tomorrow. And if anyone up there is listening: Thank you."
So, there's my two cents. No "solving"; just the simple explanation of the daily battle that I engage in. These awarenesses are what keep me here. What keep me believing that the best is yet to come. I choose today to walk with the universe, clean, sober and mindful of my spirit; rather than fight against the naturally flowing current of love.
"The finest qualities of our nature, like the bloom on fruits, can be preserved only by the most delicate handling. Yet we do not treat ourselves nor one another thus tenderly." - Henry David Thoreau, from "Walden."
I love you more than you can know.
S.
No day counter. Too much pressure. There is just today. Only, always just today.
Today I am writing for a friend. For me too, but for a friend, who so quietly reached out and asked politely for a glimpse into my soul, into my storm. Not knowing why but it doesn't matter. Funny. When our friends need us, sometimes we can just give without asking why, without expecting anything in return.
Sometimes we can't. Sometimes it's our family, those closest to us, who spurn us, deny us, turn away for this reason or that. Sometimes it hurts but more often than not it don't even register anymore. We've been spurned for so long.
"Yeah, yeah," we say to ourselves, "I didn't 'spect you to come anyways. Just had to ask you know."
More often than not I kid myself that it doesn't hurt. It hurts like fucking hell.
My friend politely reminded me I've undertaken a yearlong blog expedition and that she wants some of this action.
Hmph.
Well, just to show her what's what, I will cut and paste something from the annals of our conversations and emails that captures some of what I feel, what I think, what I know... right here, right now. (I hope you are not upset that I am sharing this...)
These unexpected obstacles that slow us down, they cause us to reflect on what's important. These are what help us to see our true selves: Our true natures. It's tough cuz the pot doesn't help us at all.. Only hurts us. It's hard to see it while we're in it, but by helping us "relax", it actually prolongs the agony. Our relaxation is premised on the silky, green dragon smoke's ability to cloak our problems, to mask them in a green-tinged mockery of true love. "YEah mon, it's all good mon... " When really, inside, we're hurting, sad, scared, lonely beyond our comprehension, and just ACHING for real expression, real happiness, just REAL in general. And sometimes, real sucks; real hurts. Real is not exciting, not immediately fulfilling. Most times real is just a pain in the ass. But it is real.
That is what we yearn for. To find our real place in this world. A place where we belong. Where we can feel love. The real secret is that all along, while we may be looking for a geographical location or perfect job or relationship to discover that love, it only exists in one place: in our hearts. We just have to choose to unlock it. To discard that which keeps us mired in guilt, shame, fear, doubt, etc. To make an ACTIVE decision to love and accept love.
Sweetheart, I hate to be a broken record, but true enlightenment and understanding and all that love is only possible when we are clean and sober. When we have stared the gaunt and sombre eyes of the tiger that is our craving, and taken back the ownership of our soul.
"No," she said, "I will NOT succumb to you oh mangy and flea bitten tiger, whose eyes shimmer with the glaze of physical pleasure. I will not hide behind the promise you give with your temporary salvation, your short lived pleasure. I will instead surrender to these feelings of fear and doubt, and in that unique position of surrender, I will feel the unexpected strength that flows from the mountain, the snow; the waters and the sky. The strength that comforts me with the recognition that the very same strength courses through my veins and makes up the seat of my soul. I am one with the universe, and the universe is one with me. And it is love, sweet love, that ties me to this plane; that connects me to all and caresses my bare feet as they touch the ground. I choose today to honour my body, mind and soul by staying pure and treating myself with love."
So fuck you devil weed; fuck you coca plant; fuck you cancer sticks.. fuck you sweet alcoholic vapours! I choose today to celebrate my life with a few chocolate chip cookies out of the oven and some green tea. And maybe a little word of thanks to my ancestors, in whose steps I humbly walk, and to those yet to arrive, whose way I hope is gentle.
I choose today to honour this planet and this life in the best way I know how: by learning to listen to my heart.
And tonight, when I lay my head down in my soft bed, between the sheets and eagerly anticipating my dreams, after I have given thanks for making it through this day and showing myself love, I ask that I have the power, will and wherewithal to do the same tomorrow. And if anyone up there is listening: Thank you."
So, there's my two cents. No "solving"; just the simple explanation of the daily battle that I engage in. These awarenesses are what keep me here. What keep me believing that the best is yet to come. I choose today to walk with the universe, clean, sober and mindful of my spirit; rather than fight against the naturally flowing current of love.
"The finest qualities of our nature, like the bloom on fruits, can be preserved only by the most delicate handling. Yet we do not treat ourselves nor one another thus tenderly." - Henry David Thoreau, from "Walden."
I love you more than you can know.
S.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Day Seven: Homeward Bound...
I was sitting in a railway station, got a ticket for my destination... Mm-mhm... Man I love Paul Simon. This guy inspired me to play, to sing. What a talent. What a beautiful soul. Onstage with Willie Nelson. Nice.
I have to go to Hinton, Alberta tonight. Two days of meetings with the Canadian Boreal Forest Agreement Regional Steering Group. Cool. My home. My place of birth. Homeward bound. (Gotta show Art too! Can't have Simon without Garfunkel)
Other things have come up as well; beautiful things. Opportunities and rewards. Terry says to me, "life just keeps putting these amazing things in front of you."
I know. <sigh> I know. Like I expect the world to reward me just for being me. Special treatment all my life. Mr. Manipulator; sell a screen door to a submarine captain - just for the hell of it.
My friend, the loudest most arrogant asshole of a recovery pro (and the sweetest, most generous man I know) says that he suffers from "terminal uniqueness." I can relate. The sense of being so unique, so special, so separate from the world - ALWAYS get my way... ALWAYS find a way... ALWAYS.... Turn on the charm and by the time I'm done, not only have you done my bidding, but you figured it was your idea.
Sick. Ever sick.
Pages 60-63 of the Big Book of AA. I have read it over and over again. Mostly because I have been directed to read it over and over again from folks that know. I know it by heart practically. And still I play God from time to time.
"The first requirement is that we be convinced that any life run on self-will can hardly be a success. On that basis we are almost always in collision with someone or somebody, even though our motives are good."
This is the trick. "Even though our motives are good." Selfish is still selfish. I remember wanting to stop the whole world just to listen to me tell them how ridiculous it was that they were at war, or stockpiling nukes or starving three quarters of the world's population so the rest of us could enjoy bologna and kraft dinner. For their own good, I wanted to impart my wisdom. My way is the right way.
Wrong.
My way is my way. Their ways are their ways. My job is to keep my side of the street clean, not sweep up theirs.
We find a way to lead by example. Show the way.
"I am the light of the world, whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life." John 8:12
Jesus rocks.
So I'm going on the road tonight. My cousin and I. Mountain bikes and fishing rods and notepads and laptop. Mostly work but a little play. My hometown. Hell, it's even his hometown. My first kiss, first love, first pube, first drink, first toke, first .. well, you know. *blush* A lot of firsts.
I love this place. The rivers, the lakes, the mountains, even the smell (pulp mill). I am pulling my trailer and parking at a beautiful ranch nestled in the foothills. Maybe even squeeze in a horsey ride.
Day seven and all is well. Bills paid, work copacetic, wife happy, kids healthy. Body, mind and soul feeling not bad at all.
Just got to get a little wiring fixed on my truck. And I'm on my way to do that.
Love to you all.
S.
xox
I have to go to Hinton, Alberta tonight. Two days of meetings with the Canadian Boreal Forest Agreement Regional Steering Group. Cool. My home. My place of birth. Homeward bound. (Gotta show Art too! Can't have Simon without Garfunkel)
Other things have come up as well; beautiful things. Opportunities and rewards. Terry says to me, "life just keeps putting these amazing things in front of you."
I know. <sigh> I know. Like I expect the world to reward me just for being me. Special treatment all my life. Mr. Manipulator; sell a screen door to a submarine captain - just for the hell of it.
My friend, the loudest most arrogant asshole of a recovery pro (and the sweetest, most generous man I know) says that he suffers from "terminal uniqueness." I can relate. The sense of being so unique, so special, so separate from the world - ALWAYS get my way... ALWAYS find a way... ALWAYS.... Turn on the charm and by the time I'm done, not only have you done my bidding, but you figured it was your idea.
Sick. Ever sick.
Pages 60-63 of the Big Book of AA. I have read it over and over again. Mostly because I have been directed to read it over and over again from folks that know. I know it by heart practically. And still I play God from time to time.
"The first requirement is that we be convinced that any life run on self-will can hardly be a success. On that basis we are almost always in collision with someone or somebody, even though our motives are good."
This is the trick. "Even though our motives are good." Selfish is still selfish. I remember wanting to stop the whole world just to listen to me tell them how ridiculous it was that they were at war, or stockpiling nukes or starving three quarters of the world's population so the rest of us could enjoy bologna and kraft dinner. For their own good, I wanted to impart my wisdom. My way is the right way.
Wrong.
My way is my way. Their ways are their ways. My job is to keep my side of the street clean, not sweep up theirs.
We find a way to lead by example. Show the way.
"I am the light of the world, whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life." John 8:12
Jesus rocks.
So I'm going on the road tonight. My cousin and I. Mountain bikes and fishing rods and notepads and laptop. Mostly work but a little play. My hometown. Hell, it's even his hometown. My first kiss, first love, first pube, first drink, first toke, first .. well, you know. *blush* A lot of firsts.
I love this place. The rivers, the lakes, the mountains, even the smell (pulp mill). I am pulling my trailer and parking at a beautiful ranch nestled in the foothills. Maybe even squeeze in a horsey ride.
Day seven and all is well. Bills paid, work copacetic, wife happy, kids healthy. Body, mind and soul feeling not bad at all.
Just got to get a little wiring fixed on my truck. And I'm on my way to do that.
Love to you all.
S.
xox
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