she’s not around much these days they always ask, but she stays away her secret life has such demands she has no time for her old friends
they see the pain behind her eyes they see the change but don’t know why she was so bright and vibrant then the music of her soul has dimmed her old friends see and want to say but she wouldn’t tell them anyway
her sunny smile seems insincere her house too clean, her kids too quiet her hair and makeup always perfect she looks the part, but she’s just not the happy girl they knew and loved she won’t ask and they won’t say but they can’t help her anyway
she keeps her sorrows tucked away she needs their help but she won’t say her secret shame keeps her withdrawn if only she could tell someone
one day soon, maybe today they might ask and she might say and they will help her get away
go, or stay, but do not think that if you wait it might get better that the first time will be the last time, don’t excuse the violence, it is not just stress or job or no job or money or no money, an abuser will be abusive no matter the circumstance the sad truth is that once it starts, it will always, only, ever, get worse
when is it time to leave? when you realize that no one, not even god, will change him for you, when you no longer care about what you are leaving behind, when your children tell you that it’s time to go, it is
when you decide to leave, just do it don’t pack more than you need, don’t leave a note, don’t call your mother, don’t involve your friends, don’t waste time gathering things that you are not willing to die for and whatever you do, don’t go back, don’t ever go back, no matter how sorry he seems you must know that if you give him the chance the abuser will get even
injustice is born from our very humanity, our need for power, wealth and our enormous vanity. we destroy our neighbors, our environment, the futures of our children’s children, and our souls with those same promises and lies that have always ever turned us one against the other for the benefit of the oppressor never for our own.
what is today, sadly, is what has always been. tomorrow, if there is to be one, will require nothing less than the evolution of our very souls, from our caves and clubs and petty, excruciating wars to the open minds of harmony and love, before the final bits of what was now are scattered to the wind.
we want time, and time, and more time, to what end? will we die happier if we live a long life of if we live gratefully for temporary things love, kinship, a smile, eyes that truly see
look at the trees, i doubt they complain about the years they don’t have. it seems enough to stretch their branches toward the sun, to witness thunder and soak up fresh drops of rain, to stand tall without demanding eternity.
breathe in the beauty and strength of the trees, endlessly renewing, shedding the old and moving on. it is the way of the universe. we live, we grow old, or not, and we die, maybe we change form and shape and live again, somehow or another or maybe not it doesn’t matter to me one life is magical enough, if i don’t waste it living in desperation and fear.
I’ve seen that look before,
you think that the problem is you.
Sunset pulls mightily upon your soul.
Stars and moon sing their own songs of freedom,
the night birds,
screeching and cawing to one another
delicately unfold their wings,
on the faintest breeze,
above the earth,
toward the growing darkness.
And you keep shoveling mountains of guilt
over your already tired bones.
You are only reaching for that part of the sky that belongs to you.
Do you think it is within your power to change
the soul that inhabits your being?
Many of us have tried
to squeeze ourselves into that perfect person mold
biting our tongues,
hiding our tears,
screaming into our pillows.
It never ends well.
Be who you are.
follow the moon and the stars,
unfold your soul wings and fly away
each of us are only particles,
currently assembled into sentient beings
held together by friction and stubbornness,
for the moment, of our being-ness.
pulled all of my strings and tore at my heart
’till my particles burned with confusion and dread.
from a bundle of tangled, broken fragments
was only the beginning.
learning to live again,
to find my own being-ness
took all of my soul’s work
and many days, and nights
when my particles disassemble this time,
I look forward
to becoming rain
The concept of becoming rain is from The Art of Living by Thich Nhat Hanh
tonight, i feel like a bird’s nest covered with skin. broken, twisted little branches held together with bits of string and sticks and stems wound up tighter than necessary to protect the pieces of me that have yet to shatter
i was a battered wife briefly, until I became a prisoner. which is of course, the only way to tame a Shrew
the single unlovely, outspoken, prickly weed in his perfect garden of quiet, well behaved possessions
the prisoner, fortunately, will never become what she is not and the Shrew will finally, at long last notice a spark of light in the darkness, pull herself up by her roots, and her hair, charge headlong into the blinding white light of freedom and never look back. not ever.
your circumstance is not your fate it is a warning, not a curse. run for your life before you put down roots