Joy

Who am I?

Meet Gerlind -named after my PenFriend
(1978, Germany)

I drive down the road in the seat of luxury and wonder… who am I really? Who am I to be seated in this power, warmth and fancy? AUDI fancy. Steering wheel solid and cool. Decisive and direct. Too cool for my meager roots. The feels. The power. Brilliance. Kinda like me… All of what I’ve had to keep hidden. All of what I’ve never let myself fully have. Until now.

I was forever seated in lack and want. In the back. Seat. Disgusting. Making do with less, getting comfortable with the uncomfortable. Hand-me-downs, free lunches, government cheese and discount milk from the gentle eyed milkman. 8 tiny children wild n hungry. We were lucky to barely have the essentials. Free Summer camp, programs for underprivileged youth and bags of clothing from the church. Too many mouths to feed with not enough dollars to make a difference.

Depending upon others for some joy, something memorable. Living and accepting less being less felt like home. Fabulousness squelched by my inner joy stealer. Habitually feeling flawed and unworthy – blocking honor and reverence. It was a comfortable cruxifixction of my magnificence. Poverty of the pocketbook and my young soul.

But now, in the literal drivers seat. Leather seat. Wait, what? I’m suddenly queen of the highway. The power and potential colliding under my bottom. Seat warmer welcoming me with open arms. Allowing the melt of my “sale rack” exterior. I deserve this. I work hard for this right here. Right now. No apologies. None.

I feel like the smaller parts of me disappear in this auto. Automatic re-configuration. Auto correct. Auto-manic smoothing out the highs and lows of my achy, frozen past. I am reborn, repurposed, recycled into comfort and acceptance and reality. The reality of joy for just being. Joy for how I’ve not only survived but thrived. From hand outs to hand ups.

I wasn’t supposed to make it to this. They didn’t want me to succeed. I have so much gratitude for the government assistance, kindness of church people, school programs, psychologists, extended family members and complete strangers who took the time to notice a struggling family, needy children, gems that needed a good polish. I thank you all! Now excuse me

I’m Audi- here.

survival

The Best and The Worst

My Brookers watching me as I live out loud

This has got to be the best and the worst time of my life. I am realizing the fruits of my hard, excruciating labor. Everyone’s imploding around me – I stand tall n steady. Dead nuts steady as an island in a tormented sea. Waves, winds crashing from all sides – yet I breathe. Because I know. That it’s all just. Temporary. And I’m fine. Finally.

I’m an observer. A family of origin- tornado observer. As life fucks the unhealed. Numerous family members who’ve passed up every opportunity to dive deep. Their Spirits, their Higher Selves wanting them to finally swim in the healing waters…they claimed they didn’t know how to swim, the water was too cold, too deep…Excuses. Now they’re drowning, slowly. Publicly.

I should be that – but if not for for the grace of God – I would be that. I should be crushed by the weight of the dark history. But yet I wear survival gear and cling to a life vest. As a result, I am unscathed by the shredding winds. I am whole. As I have already seen many-a-horrendous storms and been sucked up in the torrent – 20+ years fighting for my right to be here, to be seen, be victorious.

The worst part, watching as the trauma screams for acknowledgment, validation, to be seen and heard. The wall being built higher, more reinforcement needed to close it out, shut it up. Fortify the fortress of Denial Palace. My family of origin lives here. It’s occupants smile, gladly welcoming amnesia, loss of sight and hearing as insurance/loyalty to the fairytale. The once upon a slime childhood.

Guests are welcome in the Palace – butlers offer tall glasses of shut the fuck up with a side of “smile even when you’re dying inside” crackers and “let everyone know how loving your mother is” cheese. Secrets guarded as my siblings and maternal influence, inside, are imploding. Keeping the beast quiet and alive and salivating. The old evil licking it’s lips, eyes locked on the newest generation. Ready to feed off the misery, hiding from daylight.

The best and worst playing simultaneously. On the same reel. Sadness and elation. Devastation and joy. No longer experiencing but observing. I cannot go to the Palace. MY acceptance of fake and shallow and control has expired. I don’t fit. Maybe I never did. I can see. I can see the ugly beyond it’s fancy decor. My heart breaks for all of them yet rejoices for ME…

Can I hold both at once?

snow

In Love #22

Photo by afishnamedkaren

I’m in love with snowy silence. White wrapped muffled fuzzies or is it fuffled muzzies? Either will do on such an occasion as this. Blankets of frozen warming me with fond memories. Memories of younger days. Much younger days after the storm. The sky purging all its discards. Heavy, thick, frozen air pausing life. Muting color. Halting movement. Muffling audio. Witnessing the world losing its voice.

Ready. Standing outside. My puffy fluffer snowsuit, 2 sizes too large, insulating me from the harshness. Rosy cheeks, hand-me-down winter boots and 10 cent knitted church bazaar hat. Ready for all of it. The silence deafening. I breathe in the crisp, freshness. I barely notice my chest making small movements under the layers.

My little person body filling, cleansing and clearing. But I know it always does. Without efforting or worry or pressure. It just happens. The freshness streaming to my lungs. Filling them with silence. The stillness then warmed and released to find its way out unobstructed. Completely.

Motionless on the deserted and speechless sidewalk. I wait. And listen. For nothing and everything. Sounds of silence disturbing and delighting me. The emptiness got me full. A snowblower in the distance. Scrape of a metal shovel. All is lost. All is found. All is well. I stand, frozen, listening for nothing. I hear it. The silence. The snowy silence.