Another Day, Another Prayer Floating In Cyberspace

Words seem to evaporate inside my head as soon as they are created and within moments after they are spoken. So I’m writing. To God. To myself. To the world. Hoping the ink in this pen will somehow endow my words with a power to break through the walls surrounding me and elicit an answer from the universe. From some higher stream of consciousness that knows better than I do now and can see the mess I’m in with perfect 20/20 hindsight and fucking guide me through. I’ve never felt so disconnected.

This isn’t a journal entry. This isn’t for self preservation. This is a prayer. A cry for help. I don’t want to talk or explain. I want answers from YOU, who already knows my heart, my story, my soul. Why are you leaving me in this chaos? I’m not learning or growing. I’m spinning my wheels and growing tired, and bitter, and losing faith. I need a god damned intervention, so show up. Please. Show up for me. Take any form, but for the love of all that is holy, can you not be subtle about it? I’m disconnected. I’m losing touch and won’t hear your whispers this time. My chaos is too loud.

The wind is howling outside but still I will crack the window so the spirits of nature can pass easily into my home. Find me waking, find me sleeping, alone or in company, just find me and help me. Show me the way and light my best path.

I remember as a child begging for signs like this in my darkest moments. I cannot remember the outcomes. Somehow I became a spiritual adult with a belief system so expansive, it is at times a limitless wonderland. Unless I’m desperate. When my heart is broken, I always feel forsaken and cannot hear or feel past the sadness or the anger. Why? When I need my faith the most, why am I unreachable? Please, find me here. I’m not meaning to hide. I’m not meaning to barricade myself inside walls of fear and despair. I invite you in. I forfeit my ego and my will to the best of my ability so that I may hear, see, and know my best path. Show me the next right thing.

I’m listening.

The truth

You want the truth?

It’s streaming down my face

It’s hidden in transactions

Charges for therapy

Haircuts and makeup and new clothes

The truth is everything is temporary

Feeling good

Feeling lost

Feelings stopped mattering a long time ago

And yet here I am

Grappling with loneliness

and anger

and fear

The truth is I’m dizzy

I’m completely and totally fine

Until I’m not

Before I unplugged

Staring at my phone, eyes moving frantically over the apps I have installed, looking for an escape from my anxiety, from fear. Is there a distraction I haven’t opened yet? Is there a horoscope reading to make sense of my feelings? Perhaps I’ll refresh Instagram. Maybe I’ll look through my own photos. No, that’s a trigger. I can’t shop, I know that. Hey, progress! I could message a friend. It’s late and even later where my cross Atlantic friends are. What curiosity could I satisfy with Google? Is it too late to start a book on the kindle app? Maybe I’ll watch the workout I’m going to do tomorrow. 

No, no, no, no, no. I know better than this. This is just blue light. This is just confetti. This rectangle in my hand can not connect me to any answers. I know I have to meditate. And then, to sleep. The answer is in stillness and silence and focus. I will grow past this discomfort. I might grow past even my comfort, and I guess that will have to be ok, because I can’t stay here.

Now what

It was a long way to fall. She knew. She had looked over her shoulder for years, and still climbed higher, listening to the rocks as they broke free beneath her bare feet and tumbled lifelessly down the cliff side. She knew her fall would make a different sound. But her life was this god damned mountain. Her destiny was not to reach the top. Her destiny was to die trying, and she knew.

She was born on solid ground, beneath a beautiful and sheltering canopy of trees. They let in light, as all good trees do, but year by year she glimpsed more, until she began to seek this mountain. One that jutted far above the treeline and seemed to face the sun, always.

My god, was it spectacular to climb. To see so far. To feel the wind and the mist from the cloudy edges of heaven. She was born again and again. A mile high.

But when you climb a mountain, there is nowhere to rest until the top. She had to hold on, always. She knew it would not be sustainable. She knew she would have to fall, or jump, but for years she clung, mind body and soul to that rocky face, turning her attention ever away from her bloodied hands and feet and towards the breathtaking beauty.

When she did fall, because of course she did, it was not on purpose. It was not a premeditated day. She was not ready. But then she was never going to be ready. She flailed and clawed at the unforgiving rock before hearing the deafening wind. Not like the rocks that skipped down the mountain before her. Just a vacuum of air. Space and time passing through and around her as she fell to the ground that she barely remembered.

She didn’t know how long she would lay still, in the prickly shade of the forest floor. She knew it wouldn’t be forever, but she did not know much else. Maybe she would start to climb again. Her body ached sorely at the thought, but her heart broke to imagine a life on the ground.

She looked up at the rugged wall of rock and saw her tracks. She had changed the rock forever, as it had changed her. She had survived the climb and the fall.

Now what.

Portraits of girls

There’s a portrait of a girl that I know well. 

She has hundreds of followers under her spell. 

She’s buffed and she’s waxed and she’s dressed up to sell. 

Enough makeup and hairspray to dress up hell. 

Her freckles are faded and her lips are red. 

Not a trace of feeling in her perfect head. 

She exists just so you can compare and contrast. 

Your body to hers and surely come last. 

Don’t listen, don’t look, don’t edit your eyes. 

Be real, and feel, be someone who cries. 

Over books, over music and never disguise 

your age, your birth marks, your beautiful skin, 

and if you forget, I’ll tell you again. 

I see you. I love you. I’m a part of you too. 

Namaste. Go in peace. Be real. Be true. 0CFCE14C-98ED-4089-BE54-7C7CC8F88DC2.jpeg

I am more than a mother

This all consuming love

Is an honor

To experience childhood  and motherhood in tandem 

Is the singular thing in life

Greater than childhood itself

And yet I am more 

I was a child once

And then a girl

And then a woman

Moving forward


On only two feet

Until I became a mother, and suddenly

My identity divided 

Moving now in three different directions 

On six feet

All at once

But my daughters are not divided

Despite carrying my DNA and my voice inside them

They are wholly themselves

The way I once was and am now but for the way I am reflected


I am more than a mother

A space on fire

There are thoughts,



That crash into me

With such precise timing that it’s as if

I sent them myself.

Like somehow, years ago,

I knew exactly where I would be standing now.

And she,


Was determined to keep this fire burning,

To maintain enough agitation in my core,

That I would forever seek new forms of


And therefore grow.

And I do.

I receive these thoughts and visions and sensations and

Let them take up space inside me until

It burns too hot.


And neglect

Have fueled this wild conflagration that now demands

My attention.

I turn inwards,

Face to the flames,

And look

For whatever I’m supposed to find.

I kneel,








I let the fire transform me

And try not to be afraid

Of change,

Of emerging somehow


I will, of course,

Be me.

And maybe no one will know I was on fire.

Maybe my fate is to be alone with myself

And to discover peace there.

In a space unwitnessed,




By anyone, but me.

The Ballerina

Her skeletal spine bows like a crescent
A single violin, thin and hollow
Bends her farther still
Tiny ivory steps across the palette of her back
And aching
A waning waxen figure enslaved by sound
Starved so that she can not exist as a
She is only music
Her heart beats fast against her translucent chest
Her hunger screams from behind emaciated ribs
Possessed by drums and strings not belonging to her fragile anatomy

Compelled forward in measured movements
She is a weightless apparition en pointe
She devours the darkness around her
Chasing the music in spotlighted circles until she has illuminated the floor
And she seems human
For a moment
With quivering muscles and bleeding toes and breath behind her painted lips
But then the music stops and she falls
As a petal to the floor
Folding into herself and
becoming the silence

Horse Creek Reservoir

We built a fire next to horse creek reservoir
The frozen water bubbling with dormant life and summer secrets
And we stared into growing flames and apologized
Without speaking
For letting the fire ever go out
Both of us wishing we had burned alive
Instead of drowning on the periphery
Of greatness

By morning I was alone trying to light the ashes
Trying to reanimate even a spark on the cold mountain sand
But the time had passed for such forgiveness
And I wept
For twice as long as I burned
Until my memory of you sank deep in the water
Dormant for as long as this
winter lasts