Month: December 2021

Driving home last night was difficult.

I had felt my energy draining with each wheel barrow full in the fading light to night, and with each ensuing haul of garbage can half filled with wet, chipped wood fragments.

We were finally packed and on the road home around 10pm, and there were times I had to just startle myself into being abruptly, briefly angry to stay aware and responsive.

I was running on beyond empty.

I’m still not sure if I’m “awake,” or “asleep.”

Living on the mountain wore me down to bone and sinew, stripping flesh of heat’s buffer, and calling into question any memory of youthful vitality.

My parents’ preparation for retirement seemed to conscript me into a twenty year ahead-of-time spiral vortex toward the death of my own vibrance, and I realized I could not allow this path to be.

As tissues swell, inflamed by previous hard labor, and muscles clench like vises along neural vectors – unsure if damage has rendered cause, or merely taxed into self defensiveness – I journey forth to seek, find, and shovel bags full of wood chips for our dog run. I must do this before recovery’s need for physical lock down.

It’s been a 24 hour marathon of hard work throughout eves into early morn, and barely making the drive back home.

The trailer is cleaned, holes outside from dogs are filled, dirty hay cleared, garbage ready to be hauled, and the wood chips distributed in the front yard.

I am done with night driving, done with homesteading, done with pushing heavy wheel barrows full of rotting whatever to the pile of compost and barely not slipping and breaking something.

I am done with the toil without yields, always pushing the boulder uphill that inevitably slides back down.

I am done with intangibles that rarely produce results.

I am done with never being good enough and working hard to create bounty – only to reap empty fields.

I am done with being lost and never found.

I had a frightening but illuminating dream awhile ago where a black demon man aproached me when I had my car door open and bent down to eat my knee.

“Hey!” I cried out, startled – “Please don’t do that!”

It was all I could think to say.

He let go of my knee, hungrily salivating, and sat back on his haunches, recomposing himself.

He told me earnestly that all he wanted was to be a cook on a cruise ship, and did I think this was possible, as he’d been dissuaded from doing so.

I told him I saw nothing wrong with it, but that it would be a long haul in his overcoming bias and fear against his identity.

He seemed satisfied with this answer and left me in peace – both of us relieved.

(Have I shared this story already?)

You’ll ask how, but this brings me to the concept of gender identity and how much monocultured religious and/or other societies attempt to judge and ban against diversity.

The point is, we are all looking to express our truest selves, and we want to be acknowledged for this and allowed our rights and space to prosper.

As long as no one is causing harm, let it be.

I know this isn’t me: this isn’t my natural state of being.

Truth be told, I don’t think I’ve been freely myself since I was around three.

A therapist could say I am depressed. They’d only be correct in that the weight of all of this has always compressed.

It is not a condition of my thinking, but rather that I’ve only partially acknowledged it’s existence.

The fact that I’ve been so dissatisfied with results around me has always been downplayed.

I couldn’t afford a real accounting.

It would have crushed me.

Turning now to more fully face these defecits requires feeling how painful it all is.

It requires allowing grieving and letting tears run with faith that someday they’ll flow clean.

This toxic memory of all the suppressed, repressed, and congested chemicals – they all have to leave.

My grandfather was one of the most kind, generous, and open-heartened male human beings I have ever witnessed.

He was always there to lend gentle but powerful guidance and nourished so many budding and struggling creatives.

But, he became jaded from the harshness in the world and lack of others’ reciprocation – so much so that by the time I began to grow, he’d closed himself off from me, his own daughter’s progeny.

I cannot tell you how it felt to be of the same cloth – but always cut off, left outside in the cold and the rain of bitterness the rest of society claimed, while my grandfather lamented an “end to love,” blinded from seeing his reflection in my eyes.

I can’t give up like he did. I cannot allow myself to close off to others and deny them hope’s reinvention.

No matter how it hurts and that I’m disallowed to have attachment to outcome or expectations, I must continue to extend my heart and helping hands.

I just always figured that if I continued to be good, this would reassure others that they could be good – and if we had enough people choosing always to be good, then this would turn the tide in our favor.

Experiencing first-hand the lies and sequential trauma passed down through generations, and how governments, politics, and corporations – and any form of “evil” or negation has harmed by direct assault to subtle manipulation – it became clear to me that we have been divided as these influences have been “conquering.”

I’m still in shock that where I’ve invested did not result in yields I needed. I am supposed to rest on vague laurels that my influence helped others to succeed while somehow they deemed me worth discarding.

I don’t understand it. I didn’t deserve this treatment. It must be more symptomatic of how desperately everyone needs to be able to uncover themselves and reclaim their own identity.

There seems no room for attachment, real friendship, nor fidelity. And now I’ve learned by need for survival to also keep myself distant.

It’s become a self-propagating system within society that we march to the antipathy of disregulation.

She had no warning that moving to it would isolate her and strip her of being treated decently.

That she would be prevented from visiting any of her family or being with the man she’d planned to marry was “bonus.”

There was no safe space for weeping because to do so as it needed to be done would become a habit, unceasing.

She grew hardened by the barriers placed against her succeeding. Her wings felt as if they’d been cut off – with stumps left bleeding.

Nature consoled and confided in her, sharing its secrets to keep her mind from self-deriding.

One more trip back, and it can all finally be let go of.

She and youngling have a place that feels like home, again.