Your Story Matters

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get my book on amazon today!!

(pst…you can get the kindle version for FREE until January 14th…)

 

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Checking in

Sorry I haven’t posted in awhile. I’ve been in hibernation mode, but that’s the way it goes sometimes. I am so happy for the new year so I can recalibrate and get my head right for the next 12 months 

That being said, I am happy to finally have my very first book published on January 7th. Stay tuned for a link and info about how you can buy it!

Going forward I might be posting less and less on here as one of my New Years resolutions is to focus my energy on working with others in the healing arts and putting less focus on writing new material for myself. I will be writing as a part of my continued self care practice, but I probably won’t be sharing it publically as of now. 

I am also going to be focusing a bit more on visual art this year…

Here’s to a blessed 2018. May we get all that we need and learn new ways to live ourselves and others.

Help Me Get To SAVOR…

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I’ve been invited to perform at an event in Portland next month and I am super excited about it! It is a multi-disciplinary event where artists of all different backgrounds share their work with the community!

If you live in the Pacific Northwest, you can purchase tickets directly from my artist page here

If you live out of state or a bit further away, you can contribute to my ticket sales here!

I look forward to seeing you at the Roseland Theater on November 15th!

Read more about the event and see all of the talented folks that will be sharing their craft there that night!

 

 

Public Pools

I never realized how triggering public pools are until my son and partner started going to the pool on a weekly basis. I realized it has been a long long time since I have been in a public pool, and that I probably have been avoiding them subconsciously.

When I was 10 or 11 years old (time gets fuzzy in my childhood) my dad used to take me to an indoor public pool every Sunday after church. I used to love swimming. I never felt more excited than when I was in the water. I remember the positive feelings it gave me. The way I imagined myself as a mermaid, graceful underneath the liquid. I was very well developed for my age. I had already grown breasts and my body was chubby–that in-between stage before all of the hormones leveled out and my height caught up. I hated being in a bathing suit because my dad would often comment about my body, but I loved swimming. I felt lightweight and not as awkward as I felt on land.

Every Sunday we swam at the pool. Usually, my dad kept to himself and swam in the lap pool while I played in the swallow end. Sometimes, though, he would tell me to go over to the deep end so I could practice  diving.

I hated diving. I hated how my dad was so insistent that I learned how to do it. I was always afraid of hitting my head on the bottom of the water. I hated how he pressured me and bullied me into doing it. I hated that I had not other choice.

Then something happened during one of our Sundays at the pool. We were swimming as usual, and my dad was doing his usual thing–insisting that I dive–he swam close to me, telling me again and again to do it. I can’t remember everything that happened after that–as if I had blocked it out-but I think I got upset because he wanted me to dive into the pool and I didn’t want to. I got frustrated and started to cry- then I remember a woman in the pool yelling at him. She called him a “son of a bitch” and he ordered me to get out of the pool. I obeyed, but nervously took too long in the dressing room as my father called me to hurry up so we could leave.

Then he grabbed my hand and we rushed passed the front desk, while the clerk shouted, demanded that we stay. For my dad, this kind of situation wasn’t uncommon; he often rubbed people the wrong way, but I felt uneasy as the day went on. I felt like I had done something wrong. I knew something had happened, but I didn’t know what it was.

Late that night, long after I had been asleep, I was awoken at my father’s house by a police officer. They led me away and questioned me about what had happened that day at the pool. They said the it had been reported that my father had molested me. At the time, and to this day I have no recollection of anything like that happening, but I can’t remember a lot from my childhood. My dad was not a reliable narrator, and I often felt like my reality was not “real” when I was with him because he observed things so differently. I do know that at the time I was very clear that I did not experience that, and the police officers badgered me for hours to admit what had happened. Like my dad bullying me into diving into the pool all those times.

Every time we have gone to the pool this month I have felt uneasy. Scared to swim. To move in the water. Too scared of what others see. Whether they will observe something about me I don’t. I feel sick when the swampy smell hits my nostrils.

Maybe this is the reason why.

 

I Come From…

I come  from the space between pain and growth

I come from the sharp inhale before a scream;

The desire to fight against odds–

Always pushing the stones ahead of me.

I come from heavy. From deep and from hard.

From the cracks in the sidewalk that flowers emerge from

I come from empty fields in the winter, waiting for spring

I come from the wetness of hope. The need to plant seeds that may never sprout.

I come from movement. Always moving. Standing still is the first step in my self destruction.

I come from sewing up wounds that may never heal, but shimmer in the sunlight.

I come from the shards of my mother’s silence. The stories she spoke in whispers. I come  from grandmothers who were half venom and half saccharine.

I come from a father who’s struggles shaped me awkward and bent. Who’s words made me hollow and ready for anything.

I come from possibile outcomes and probably disappointment. But still here, I wait for something better. Something stronger. Something sturdy enough to hold onto in this reality of rushing river. The pull of the current.

I am the ocean. Unpredictable at times. Destructive by nature. Waves that smash and change the landscape in a single rush.

I am the sand; small particles that were once too large to fathom

Always changing.

Always changing.

Dreams

Nights have been hard lately.

I either dream about someone I love telling me how much they DON’T love me

Or I dream about getting drunk on rum.

I haven’t had a drink in 10 months, but I still feel like I have a hangover.