Hello again, old friend.
06/14/2005 07:13 a.m.
I’ve come back from a short sabbatical. I love reading poetry. I love seeing other people’s words. It’s gives power to emotion and reminds me that I am not alone. I missed it while living my own personal pity party recently. The world may be crumbling and not making much sense, but there is always honesty here. My own personal truth is that I do not understand the reason for the state of the world. It’s like I’m looking through a kaleidoscope and I can’t make sense of the pieces. The reality of the truth is bent and broken and I don’t have the answers to make them fit.

My Mother was the puzzle queen. She knew how to give me enough of the picture to pull together a portion of sense. She could reach into my soul and calm it. She knew me better than I know myself. God, I miss her and I haven’t been able to deal with the BS since her passing. My brother says he still hears her, but I can’t. She was decent and honest. She had an impenetrable integrity that I admired and aspired to.

I’ve never had that kind of freedom with anyone but her, the kind of freedom where you don’t have to be writing a poem on the impersonal Internet to be brutally honest. I feel the pressures of time on my finding that again and I haven’t even come close in so long, I actually fear it. I’ve taken steps in dismantling the fake me. I’ve torn down the fake walls and abandoned the part of me that was weakened by stability. It’s all I’ve known. Do what you’ve got to do to keep the status quo because what it would actually take to be happy is so beyond the scope of my understanding at this time. I’ve had to lose the stability to stop living a routine and start living.

I’m so out of my comfort zone, I could use my Mother’s words to guide me. I wish that I could hear them. I wish that I could be fearless like she was. My Mother wanted to be an actress and she was. She worked on Broadway and for NBC when she was young. She could get up there and do it. Whatever it was. Even after she became a Wife and mother and fell into her life’s routine, she made time for her passion. I remember being in diapers in the backstage watching her rehearse. I’ve spent my life hiding my words from the fear that someone would say I was terrible at it. It shouldn’t matter.

Poetry has always been a spiritual guide. I know that there is a poem out there that could tell me what I need to hear. I know the words are there to inspire me the way my Mother has in the past and I know that my words have value, if only to me.

I am currently Better
I am listening to A softly purring kitty cat.