The Game of Love

He wrote as if it was about her.

This was his con. To make every “her” feel she was THE her. HIS her.

This was his gift and HER curse.

Because if you actually read the words and didn’t get caught up in the con, every word was about HIM and he said very loudly and very clearly: There was no HER.

He studied women. Spoke with women. Remembered women. So his sweeping generalities and flowing script cast a wide net.  EVERY woman could relate. See something of herself reflected. Their unhealthy mirror made them believe the depth of his knowledge was a show of his attention to and intentions with HER.

But his inbox was full of DM’s from so many HERS.  Because each one of them believed that what THEY shared was special, her response was sent to him privately. In his inbox. Email. Text message. His phone blowing up with the notifications. His ego swelling with each response.

And the con became a solid way of life.  The question is: who is he trying to CONvince?  Himself or all the otHERS?

Miscommunication

I gave you my hope
You took my body
I wanted you Whole
You wanted a hole
A hole in you satisfied
A hole in me filled
So you filled me with semen
And as you were leavin
I finally came
Came to my senses
And stopped believing
We wanted the same thing
I crave the spiritual
You’re stuck in the physical

Can You Feel That

I feel you inside me
Even though you’re hundreds of miles away
Lay back. Close your eyes.
Can you feel that?
Can you feel me as you fill me?
Fill my mind with knowledge.
Fill my spirit with love.
Fill my body with craving.
Touch yourself.
Can you feel that?
Feel me, as you fill me.

We Mattered

He entered my body through every hole
Feeling me so deeply He found my Soul
Finding the edge of my passion and pain
Taking me beyond every limit releasing the strain
Prostrate on the floor naked and exposed
My body an offering and a prayer
Kneeling at his feet
My surrender complete
He Came
I Lived
We Mattered

Wounded Women

The young mom whose own mom chose meth and alcohol over being a mom and she is now learning to be a mom, without a mom. 

The young adult woman who bounces from family member to family member in search of belonging and her ‘place’ in the world. Never quite sure where she fits in, struggling to define ‘self’ in a split family. 

The working mom who is emotionally drained and physically stretched who comes home to a son that is challenging and demands every ounce of reserves to parent. She feels alone and questions how she can be so brilliant at work and yet not have answers for her own son.

The single woman who travels the world in almost complete solitude and fear because her experiences have taught her that no one can be trusted. 

The woman who is a pillar of her community yet fights an internal battle that she numbs with alcohol and no one knows. 

The middle aged woman who fights a battle with depression, wears scars on her face that tell of past experiences and struggles daily to overcome past failures. 

The woman who is homeless yet puts on business clothes every day to go to a job that doesn’t pay enough to cover rent and daycare...she chooses daycare to keep her kids safe when she can’t be with them. 

The 20, 30, 40, 50 something female who swiped right looking for some sort of love and connection and now lays next to this stranger filled with grief and embarrassment at her actions. Her self worth plummets as she walks to her car and wonders when she’ll give up this chase. 

The wife, whose marriage from the outside looks fine, but she hasn’t touched her husband and he hasn’t touched her in months.  They barely speak.  They gave up fighting years ago. What remains is apathy and loneliness.  

The 80 year old who lives alone, husband passed, kids grown and distant, fighting the battle of a decaying body while her heart and mind are still vital. Struggling to accomplish even the simplest of tasks, defeated and disgusted with the ravages of age. 

We see these wounded women every day. At work. At the store.  In the mirror.

They - we, I - walk among you every day. We are not carrying signs, marching in rallies, posting hashtags crying me too. We are fighting the fight to carry these wounds while we care for our partners, children and co-workers.  We carry these wounds while simultaneously searching for healing and a life that makes sense. 

The wounds become scars and no longer openly bleed.  We warrior on as partners, mothers, workers...wounded.  

Obstacles

Yesterday I took a walk by the river.  It was beautiful. Serene.  I climbed over rocks, walked on sandy shores and contemplated my life and which direction it was flowing to.  As I walked, I noticed the sounds of the river changing, getting louder, making more noise, creating more friction.  I kept walking and the river got quiet, still flowing, still moving in the right direction, just more smoothly and without all the racket.

It was the obstacles that created the noise.  The river didn't change, it kept flowing in the direction it was created to flow in, it just got noisy and rough when there were obstacles in its path. Rocks. Branches. Debris.  These things caused all the noise and turbulence in the river.  In many ways these obstacles make the river more beautiful, more fun, more daring.  In some ways, they change the direction of the flow for a bit, but eventually the river continues to flow in the direction it is intended to flow. Never departing from its natural course.

My life is like that river.  It gets noisy and disturbed when there are obstacles blocking my path.  Sometimes those obstacles make it beautiful, daring, more fun to ride for a while.  Eventually, those obstacles and distractions have to get out of the way so that I can get on with my natural flow and head in the direction I was intended to go.

Recognizing obstacles for what they are, moving around them, continuing to flow and reach my destination is one of the great challenges of life.  Realizing those obstacles are not ME...they are just there to rough up the river for a while and as life goes on, those obstacles change and disappear.  

Don't get stuck in those rough spots...Ride them out and just keep flowing.

Mortar and Gold

Years ago I fell apart into a million little pieces.  I picked up the pieces, put them in a box and put the box on a shelf. Oregon. Washington. Mexico. Louisiana. California. Alaska. I travelled and or lived in all these places lugging the box of pieces with me, but never opening the lid to look inside.  It’s the pieces of me I couldn’t be.

It’s years later. I’ve sat still for a bit, took the box off the shelf, opened the lid and looked at the pieces of who I used to be and wonder how to put myself back together. When you open a puzzle box there’s a picture on the cover to guide you and the pieces are cut to fit together just so.  This box doesn’t have a picture and the pieces aren’t cut to fit together just so. There are big pieces. Small pieces. Some with extremely sharp edges. Some shattered but not broken. Some shattered into such small pieces they’re barely visible.

If there’s no picture and the pieces don’t fit just so, how do I put the pieces back together? How do I become whole again? Masons use mortar. A workable paste used to bind building blocks together. Used to fill in all the irregular gaps and sometimes used to add decoration. In Japan they practice Kintsugi- the art of precious scars. Broken pottery is repaired with gold making the brokeness a thing of beauty.

I found the courage to take this box of broken pieces off the shelf. I took the lid off and I’m looking at the pieces of me. I’m holding the brokenness with forgiveness and compassion. Now how do I put the pieces back together? What’s the mortar used to hold my pieces in place and fill in irregular gaps? What do I use for gold to fill in the cracks and make my brokenness a thing of beauty?