One year later

One year. One year ago today my life blew up. It was instant. The loss happened so quickly, I was left gasping and scrambling. I am still processing. I am still very much grieving.

I made it through the year of firsts. Holidays. Birthdays. Every season. It's interesting what you think will hurt doesn't, and what sneaks up on you with a kick to the guts. Christmas was fine, but the Tulip Festival was another story. The closing of the old bowling alley, a certain hotel in Vegas changing it's name...confirmation that my old life was over.

It's been one year since we were all under the same roof.
It's been one year since there was a real face-to-face conversation.

For one year I've avoided almost all the old haunts.
I had no energy left to spare to enjoy a lot of the things I once enjoyed.
I spent a year without my roller skates.

I've spent a lot of time feeling broken. Foggy. Scared. Bullied. Feeling that a lot of what had been the most meaningful in my life was now for naught. Wondering if I am supposed to go on living. Missing my old self. Wishing for the confidence and creativity I once had to return. Feeling hopeless that they ever will.

Somehow, I kept pushing through, and had a lot of wonderful experiences, too. I found a new freedom I enjoyed. I made deep connections with incredible women who share similar stories.

I continue to work hard in therapy to heal from my trauma and PTSD. I am slowly, slowly making progress. Baby steps. Forward motion. Glimpses of my old strength are becoming more frequent, and the waves of anxiety are happening less. The decision to take control of my own healing in a situation that left me so hopeless has been empowering and crucial.

I have gotten over the pangs of both heartbreak and jealousy that would hit when I would see a baby out with both a mom, and a dad. I am working on getting over the pangs of both heartbreak and jealously that hit when I see an announcement of baby number two.

I have forced myself out of my shell and comfort zone, a ton. This has been one of the best things for me. I have met people I never would have met otherwise and have tried my hardest to learn from each person who has crossed my path, knowing that they were all placed there for a reason.

I took some inspiration recently from a woman who after experiencing loss said something like, "Option A isn't available. And if option A isn't available...then we're going to have to rock the shit out of option B." I am still wrapping my head and heart around the fact that yes, option A isn't available. But I'm feeling more optimistic that once I know what option B is, I can rock that.

I have met new men. It's been more of a social experiment for me than anything else, because I've never dated. I've been in a long term relationship since I was 19. I need to learn who I am around new men, and what I want. It's few and far between. Dating for me has been conversation, or food or a drink. I've had a year without romance in my life. And that's okay.

I slowly feel my creativity, focus, and spirituality coming back. Like sparks lighting up through my system...a tiny bit here and there at a time...slowly coming back online. Back to life. And I'd rather give myself time to see it through and feel the difference, than to jump off a bridge.

I am learning what boundaries I need, and how to begin to draw them.

I believe, with nothing but trust and some blind faith, that there is something more for me. I don't know what that means, or when I'll get there, but I know I'm not on this earth to be shattered and stopped at this point in the story. What if this is right when it's about to get good? I have to know.

And then of course, my boy. My boy. My boy. My world. My son. I am the most happy, grounded, myself, rooted in earth, and in my essence when I am being mother. I am not sad. I am not lost. I am fully present in each moment. I am dropped in, I am there. I am just as in awe of him as I have ever been, if not more so. I know there are big lessons he is here to teach me, big things he is here to do, and I am HIS mother for reasons I have yet to know. He is my joy and my balm.

I had never known what regret felt like until this year. But when I look at my son, I know it couldn't have all been for nothing because HE came from this. Little blonde being of light, life, and magic.

I have been thinking so much about this day as it approached. I didn't know how I'd feel, or what I'd want to say. I wanted to wake up in my full power, a sense of relief. Healed.

But instead I feel sad. I feel in time I'll be okay. That one day I will wake up that way.

But today I'm sad, and that's okay, too.


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One big goodbye

I've been thinking a lot about something an ex once said. This ex was my longest relationship. 8 years. While I wasn't ready for him, nor did I experience the romantic love needed to keep me there, looking back years later I can appreciate lessons he taught me in a whole new way. With time, distance, and the ability to compare, and contrast, I see that what I took as "too simple" was pretty darn enlightened. 

Our nights, and our Sunday's were filled with conversation of incredible range. Socialism, theatre, the universe, love, the seven wonders of the world, our dog, our childhoods, you name it and we would discuss it at length. Nighttime was often like a slumber party. We'd talk, and talk, subjects bouncing all around. We'd dig in, he'd entertain my curiosity as a willing, and equal participant. Always gentle, always open to philosophizing, he taught me to embrace, and appreciate my sensitivity. He loved my inquisitive nature, my deep thoughts, and big feelings. He allowed me to unabashedly and unapologetically be ME. I wasn't quite aware of it then, because he did it so simply. 

He was there through the first of the two hardest times I've lived through, the first being back in 2012. At this point, I knew I needed to be out of the relationship, but didn't know how to say or do it. Just then, I experience a slew of losses, and stayed put awhile longer.

We talked for months about loss, and goodbye. You'd have to scroll a ways back to find it, but there's a post here where I talk about him saying  life's a series of goodbyes, how "we all meet in the middle of one big long goodbye." I remember when he said this. It seemed uncharacteristicly profound to me at the time, although l think now I wasn't aware of his profundity that probably happened regularly. 

Five years later, I imagine him saying this, in our old kitchen. The way the light filtered in, the sound of his voice. He seemed to be discovering these words and idea in the moment as he spoke. 

This memory makes me sad, but the good kind of sad. A wave of nostalgia hits my heart, but a small smile spreads across my lips. 

His words are  a reminder for me to embrace the goodbyes. To accept, to release, to move forward knowing I will always encounter them. It's all life is...we all just meet in the middle of one big long goodbye. 

So small, and so big, isn't it?

Each goodbye teaching you how you will invest your time from here on out, what kind of people are needed next to sooth your soul, or teach the next lesson. With each goodbye, we are one evolution closer to our greatest wisdom. 

The reminder of our inevitable departure from this earth fills me with love, entire. Even when I think back the moments I thought I would die from heartbreak, I find comfort. It's all IN. It all counts. It all happened. It's all OKAY.

It's just life. This is the way it has to be.

One of my favorite quotes comes to mind, "we are all just walking each other home." We are all teaching each other along this blip of a walk, and I am grateful for each of my radically different gurus along the way. 

I am okay with where I am, presently. I can see it, it's almost tangible. Like a dot moving slowly across a line, approaching a finite end. We are all meant to be EXACTLY where we are in this EXACT moment. 

The dot is seeking...moving toward something brand new, and very much earthed.

I look forward to the next goodbye, and the next, and the next...

🖤

The boy.

I can recall where I was four years ago instantly. Physically, I was wrapping up a temporary stay in NYC. I'd gone back for a few months to remember what it was like to be a student again, and immersed myself in classical training. Emotionally, it was the worst time of my life. 2012 wrecked havoc on my heart, head, and soul. We'd lost my uncle that May. He was lost to me in a slew of other losses that year, varying for me in degrees of devastation. I'd been shattered, and I was trying to rebuild. His birthday (the first he would not be there for) was November 9. On November 10, I saw a play. I left on a high. I came back to where I was staying only to find out via face-time that my Grandpa had just died. I could't get home fast enough. I'll never forget that feeling. I wanted to crawl out of my skin. 

Four years later, everything I've lost has come back to me in a new form. All that loss cleared out space for me to gain so much. I truly believe that must happen, and I am left even more amazed at the way birth and death are, in fact, one. 

But there's a final piece from 2012 that I've never shared, because it didn't click for me until recently. And four years later on the birthday/departing day anniversaries, here it is. 

Four years ago I had what can only be described as a vision. I wrote bout it here.https://theshapeshiftingpoet.blogspot.com/2015/04/neither-here-nor-there.html I was in Southern Utah for my my grandpa's funeral. Falling asleep, I saw as clear as day my grandpa and uncle outside in a beautiful clearing. The sun was bright. The sky bright blue. The grass and trees around them a vibrant green. They were young, and they looked so good! They had with them a toddler. A boy. He was as blonde as can be. They were all so happy, playing with him. Doing that thing you do with little kids where you hold their hands and spin them around so their feet are off the ground. It was very real. It was happening, or had happened, wherever they were. I didn't know who the toddler was, but they seemed to be taking care of him. 

I thought about it from time to time over the years, but it didn't hit me until recently who that boy was...

For the Squirrel and the Bluebird, who continue to give. 

DM 

Four.

I'm holding my newborn son in my arms, rocking him to sleep. I'm standing over his bassinet when I remember it's almost the 27th. I have to count it out on my fingers to really make sure that this will mark four whole years. Four suddenly seems like a lot. 

I try to imagine as best as I can, you as a baby. My grandmother holding you in her arms, rocking you to sleep exactly as I am doing now. I can't quite see it, but I know it happened. It's so hard to wrap my head around the fact we all start out this way. We've all been held in the arms of a parent, or by someone who loved us. 

I think about how you, Charles, lived in this very condo before my baby Charles did. You have the same residence. You have the same bedroom. You share the same name.

I remember the first time I came back here after you left. Everything exactly as you'd left it, and the air still smelling of you. My mom said I could take something, but I hardly dared to breathe let alone move a thing. I chose only the tiniest object, and the one that seemed most you. An itty-bitty baseball magnet off the fridge. 

I don't let myself linger in this memory too long.

I come back to the present, and think about how the baseball magnet then traveled with me, only to end up back on this fridge. How Charles ended up back in this place, and while he is not you, nor supposed to be, this all feels connected. Inevitable. Strangely whole. This circle of life. 

Into my head pops the Rumi quote, "Don't grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form." 

I get it. 

I leave my heart at that, and put my son to bed. 

Memorial

You left the earth at 35 years
Starting in 2014, a girl you'd never know would stand at your grave
She married a grandson you never knew
It strikes her as profound that someone who died at 35 so long ago
still has young people paying respects.

When does it end?

I still feel so incredibly immortal.
It will never be me.

But when it is…who will come?

People are connected in ways I could never imagine.
When will it run out?
Eventually the line ends.

So what's the point of being buried?

Where would I like to go when it's time?
Is there a reason to save me?

I don't like any of my options.

I'd rather dissipate then lay low preserved, or face the flames.

When I tell my husband this, he says, he'll decide for me.
"We're going to be buried."

Suddenly it's all okay. He'll be in the earth with me.
And I'm comforted,
and it strikes me as the most romantic thing I've ever heard.
I want to freeze time,
and I'm more sure than ever that one human lifetime with him
is not nearly enough.

Only eternity will do.



~Deena Marie

Grief, three years later.

Today is the 27th. That number is burned into me, but I manage to survive it okay.

I wonder why I can, if I should be something other than okay, but I remind myself to let go of a should or shouldn't. I am where I am, how I feel, today.

Today is okay.

I woke up next to my husband, did the dishes, sent him off to an interview, hopped in the shower. My mom came over, because it's the 27th, and we talked in my living room while my pup took turns sitting on our laps.

My husband came home, I made him something to eat.

We worked from home, we ran errands. We laughed. We ate. We kissed. We said I love you. We spent the evening playing nintendo.

That's what I did on the 27th, three years later.

I haven't cried. I don't know that I will. I feel healed. I feel whole. I have to know that it's okay.

Time is so surprising. Three years ago today I remember leaving my house in the morning to get back to my aunts, where he and his hospital bed had been set up in the living room. I thought I'd still get to see him. I pulled up mere minutes too late. My dad out front to meet me, "he's gone". "What?" Feeling everything sink. Purple pajama pants, blue flannel shirt. Running in. How profound. The first death is the most profound thing a person can go through. His bed surrounded. A spot now taken by me. His things at his bedside. What becomes of things? You can't take them with you. How he looked. He was, and yet he wasn't. We are not our bodies.

The reaction of my grandpa when he came in and realized he was also too late. Three years ago, I also still had a grandpa.

The blanket that had been keeping him warm. A kids blanket. Navy blue, with clocks. The time was frozen around the 10 o'clock hour. Very near the time he left.

At some point, he left us, entire. I don't know what happened then.

Three years ago tonight I sat in my backyard looking at the moon and questioning everything. Everything was new, and open, and vast, from the moon to my heart. I was reborn. I drank three big red cups of vodka and soda to drown out the world and cried myself to sleep wondering why I should get to sleep in a bed if he couldn't.

Those are the most vivid memories of the most surreal day.

Time blurs from there. I will always remember spending that spring and most of 2012 shattered. Before that, and after that. For so long, so terribly broken. I still carry that weight with me more than I'd like to, and find myself angry at times I ever had to go so low.

Crushed. Heart smashed.

Sad, sad, sad.

I did everything I could to keep moving and continue the rebirth. I shaved my head. I was so open. I read everything. I expanded. I learned. I saw omens. I saw heaven. I saw him in the form of animals. I ran. I ran, ran, ran. Anything to keep moving. I was afraid if I sat still something awful would happen to me.

I thought I was dying. I also had nightmares and began to feel sick all the time. The losses piled up and I could barely breathe.

I thought maybe I too, wanted to die.

Get me out of here.

I kept digging, I kept being buried alive.

I am mad at that time.

Mad, mad, mad.

But yet here I am, presently. So whole. Parallels exist at any given time. Extreme opposites. Both are true. I learned this then, and it still holds today.

Today the number 27 is burned into my brain. The contrast from three years to today feels like it might as well have happened to someone else.

I don't feel guilty for my happiness. I don't know how I should behave, or pay tribute, or not, on this day. I haven't cried, but I still feel it all. It happened, and left its mark all through my insides.

I still don't know what to make of it at times. Sometimes it's still not real. Sometimes a wave rocks me for no reason, death it says, he died, and the permanence takes me over for just a second. My brain can't process it for long, and my soul goes into protection mode.

It's another heaviness that simply is. Inside.

I thought of asking him for a sign today. Just like the first Christmas after he left I asked him to throw me a snowball on Christmas eve. "Make it hit the window outside", I said. Nothing. Today? Nothing. But today I also feel like I'm too closed off to it to see it anyway. Because if it happened, if it really happened, I think deep down I couldn't take it.

So that's it. That's today.

The third of these 27's so far.

And I have to stop now, because if I go on I think I might cry.

And I think what I need today, is to let myself be okay.


P.S The views on this post are quite high. I'm not sure why, but I'm glad people are reading. I find I am most comforted by words. I am so thankful there are writers, bloggers, and people living with open hearts who are willing to share their words. We all teach each other. I hope this entry is comforting to you if you have experienced any kind of loss. I have so much to say on the topic of loss, lessons learned through loss, and rebirth. If you go back to May of 2012 here on my blog and read up through about the first part of 2013, you might find even more that can hopefully be of comfort as I went through my journey of losing myself, and finding a new normal. Things turned out better than I ever could have hoped, but I had to go through darkness first that I never dreamed was possible. 

I also hope you subscribe here, bookmark, or look around through other posts. This is the place where I pour my heart out. 

~DM

Neither here nor there

You know the space between sleep and awake? The hazy and mystical place where new ideas flow freely, and revelations are had? Where you are neither here nor there, but existing somewhere other than this plane? Where dreaming and reality meet? You know how sometimes it's a little more revelatory than others? Me too.

I had one of these visions/experiences the other night. My dad recently sent me the above photos. They speak to me so strongly as familiar and right and me, and only now when I thought to post them did I realize how closely they resemble to what I saw and felt the other day/night.

I was in and out. I was deeply aware of a stillness through the universe. A vastness, a beautiful darkness. All was quiet, calm, peaceful, and so still. All existing as it always had and always will. No time. There is no time. There is no clock, no need nor way to mark a date, or an hour, or the minute.

All was one, breathing together, and time felt suspended and infinite.

I was comforted, remembering that I'm part of that. The most natural thing in the world. Home. I could see the planets through a purple and blue and feel myself around them, and everywhere, for I was (am) part of everything.

It's one of those things you can't quite experience the same when fully conscious, no matter how hard you try. It's fleeting, but so real. So deep. A reminder, a re-awakening, a comfort sent your way. Letting you know that you know more than you think, to believe, and to trust.

For a brief moment, I was let out. Of my physical body, out of this world, out of time. Back to my origins. Back to my home. It's so beautiful there.

In the neither here nor there I've seen heaven. I wrote about it a couple of years ago. After Chuck died, I saw it. It is gold and grand and moves slowly.

In the neither here nor there I've seen my Grandpa and Chuck. They were young, they were happy, they were playing with a baby in a meadow. The grass was so green, the sun was shining, it was warm although they both wore jackets. They had huge smiles on their faces as they spun him around. This little blonde boy.

In the neither here nor there, the same night I was released to the cosmos for awhile, I also felt my future baby. My daughter? All around me. She is there. She is near me. It will soon be time. We're connected already.

A few nights ago my mom had a dream Chuck was teaching me a dance on a stage. He was around 30. He was in a tuxedo. He looked great. As he taught me, others gathered behind us. I think I'm supposed to share a message of his.

A few nights after that, she had another dream that Chuck was buckling a little baby girl into a car seat. She was wearing a dress. All I know, is they are together. She is in good hands. And she will soon be on her way.

She is waiting, watching over me. He'll send her when we're ready.

She knows best.


Thanks for reading,

Deena Marie

xo

Who are you?

So inspired by what a friend asked today on her Facebook page. "WHO ARE YOU? Who are you behind your fb page, your business title, or any other mask you have out there. Deep down, behind closed doors, who are you?" I  wanted to pose the question, too.  When you answer, let it pour out of you quickly. Don't think too much, just let the answer come. Stream of consciousness.  Here's mine: 

I am the most sensitive person I know. I feel everything deeply. Too deeply, I think, at times. I recently learned I get caught up in past wounds more than I was conscious of. I think being a human is unnatural and I don't like it all that much at times. Yet I often exist in a state of opposites. I have felt more in the moment the last couple of years more than I ever have, and I am currently so in love with my life that I get terribly sad thinking I don't get to keep it. I have to die someday. I don't want to. I want to freeze time. I don't want my husband and I to age, or die. I find this heartbreaking. 

I came to this life an old soul, but the memories of whatever I was are getting farther away. As if I am growing younger. I believe in reincarnation only because of how strongly I feel that I've always been here and will be again. I can almost remember the in-between of each round.  I identify with warrior and wise sage archetypes. Joan of Arc. Sylvia Plath. Carl Sagan. I also find it small and strange that we all fit into the same archetypes again and again. I always want there to be more. There probably is, but I don't know enough to see it.  

I believe humankind sets incredibly silly rules about things like money and politics and priorities. I don't like the boundaries and labels we draw with the earth and with each other. I've never belonged to an organized religion, but understand people need to believe what they believe to get through life with comfort and hope. We are all entitled to that, and should never be told or tell another they are wrong for their path. I believe we all end up in the same place, so whatever road you take to get there is fine. 

I think it is impossible and nonsensical to judge another, therefore when you do it's all about you and your beliefs, perceptions. I can't wrap my head around people shunning other people because of who they love, what they wear, or skin color. I suppose it's because I know I'm not my body. I identify with my inside, my soul. I feel my soul is not so limited as the vessel that houses it this round. I don't know if it's male or female or human, or what it is.  But I know it's me.  I also think my shell and my jobs here betray who I am.  Funny, isn't it? I do believe it's meant to be this way, for the greater good of our evolution. 

I crave salt to the point where I swear it could be a medical issue.  Always have. I prefer to sit on the floor rather than on a piece of furniture and have to reassure new people again and again that yes, I really am fine to do so. I have gone longer without red meat and pork in my diet than I ever did with it, even though there was a time when steak, mashed potatoes, and corn was my favorite meal.

When people have conversations about decorating their homes and shopping for material possessions I want to cry with boredom. I'd rather you talk about what makes you sad, and alive, and scared, and where you think our soul is, and what you think it is, and what you know to be true without ever having experienced it. 

I often feel I don't belong here in this place and time because I know better, I see past the illusion. I often imagine there is a force, a presence, or creator sitting back watching all of us here on planet Earth get it so wrong.  I'm sure they shake their head at us.  But I feel it is also loving and patient, and knows all.  I truly believe one day mankind will be enlightened, yet I'm surprised at our slow progress.  But we are young. 

I feel at times a more masculine energy in myself than female. I think nurture and nature have a huge hand in shaping us. I am an aries and only child through and through. For a highly sensitive person who has been on the path to expand and enlighten herself for four years now, at times I am scared how stubborn and borderline narcissistic I am. I try to forgive myself and chalk it up to the fact that I do have to live this life.  I have to be temporarily human.

I tattoo bits and pieces on my shell that mean something and mark phases, memories, and decades. It's a collection of the people I once was. When I die, I like that someone who doesn't know me could look at my body and in seeing those tattoos, understand a bit of who I was. That makes me smile just thinking about it. 

I believe this round my lessons are to learn how to truly forgive other people, to accept, allow, embrace, be present, and have patience.  

I believe my dog and I have been together before. I know it when I look into his eyes.  I believe dreams are sometimes memories.  I have had the same recurring dream about him and it has nothing to do with anything we've ever experienced.  He is always about to drown in various bodies of water, he is sinking.  At the last minute I save him.  I believe it's because we've lived it.  Maybe he's been my son.  

The first time you experience a death of someone close to you is probably the most profound experience possible.  When I did three years ago, I believe now I suffered from the beginnings of cotard delusion . I could feel my soul trying to escape, I felt I could barley contain it.  I kept trying to transition. I felt I was flickering and wasn't here in this world. I kept worrying I'd died.  

I've known what it is like to want to die, and what it's like to want to live.  I have had a thing for awhile with wanting to be in the air, off the earth. But as I seek and find my truth in this life, I am far more okay with being rooted to earth. Love is my number one, above all else. It is our essence, after all. I probably love too much, nearing the point of worship. I am so full of it, it hurts sometimes.  

Social media is a blessing and a curse.  I secretly long to live off the grid. I've got a hippie soul. Being in nature away from technology feels most natural.  I believe we are all one. I am another you, you are another me. If we all understood this there would be no enemies, no war. 

I believe happiness is not a place you get to and sustain, but society wants us to think so. All emotions are fleeting. It's okay to exist as something other than happy, and more often than not.  Sometimes I think I feel most in my natural state when I've got a bit of melancholia or nostalgia.  

I wish I was a cosmologist. Science is spiritual. If I could dub my "religion" with the title "Scientific Spirituality", I would. When I remember how we are so much tinier than we can ever comprehend, I want to cry over the fact I'll never be out exploring the universe in this lifetime.  

I feel most like "me" when I forget "me", and experience something that reminds me I am part of something bigger. I believe the universe is kind, and will give you what you need at every single moment.  It might not be what you think you want, and you probably won't fit the puzzle pieces together until far down the road.  Every time you trust your instincts and jump, the universe provides.  Everything is a lesson. And all, all, all, is temporary.  

I don't know if I've ever truly met another of my kind, but take comfort knowing they are out there somewhere, feeling the same way I do.

So, who are you?

Thanks for reading,

Deena Marie 

Two years.

"What I want you to know, you, yes you, is that there was a time when the people who are not, were still in the world. Made of earth. And they were vibrant and alive. Life was localized and it was musical and smelled of cinnamon and spice. It was loud. A vibration of generations connected by our invisible dewdrop spiderweb. I was so conscious of it then. It was tangible. I could almost see it. I can hear it still. It echos in me." 

-Deena Marie, 2012


Two years ago today, almost down to the exact hour, my uncle chuck left earth.  I don't feel like posting pictures.  But I can't go without words on this day.

The first experience with this thing we call death.

If you could peek inside my head and heart you'd see why that was the moment.  From then on, nothing would ever be the same.  For me, for any of us.  I could never have imagined that that was the beginning.  The beginning of the shift.  The new normal. Nothing would remain the same.  My internal makeup would completely change.

I've been thinking a lot about that, and while I've mentioned it here plenty of times since then, how do I try to explain what that means? My internal makeup would completely change.

I wrote this blurb the other day,

"Ever since, I worry my eyes can't see.
Won't focus, will stop seeing, have blurred.

I worry my breath is running out, has become too shallow, 
no longer supports me.

I feel myself flicker and worry I keep trying to transcend.  
Involuntarily, my consciousness slips in and out and I have no control.

I wonder if in fact I don't exist."

I thought my soul was going to jump right out of my body.  I felt like I could barely contain it.  "Here we go", I'd think to myself as the feeling would come on.  I could be anywhere.  Driving in the morning.  Sitting in front of the computer.  Getting ready to meet a friend for coffee.  I could barely focus.  I realized how serious it could be the day I rear ended a car coming off of the freeway for no reason.  I knew I was slowing down, I knew there was a car in front of me.  I simply didn't see it.  I kept leaving myself.

And my dreams.  If only you could have seen my dreams.  I've seen the brightest lights as I'm falling asleep.  "Here we go," I'd think to myself.  "Transcending again." I've seen visions. I've seen heaven.

I've felt my heart race to the point of panic and my brain go fuzzy.  My body kept betraying.  Now I realize it has a name.  You can call it anxiety, you can call it PTSD. I call it the new normal.  And it's getting better.  Patience.  Time.  I am feeling less connected to the physicality and other worldly-ness of two years ago.  

I no longer worry I don't exist, have died, will slip off the earth and into the blue before it's time.

I'm here.  I'm meat and bones and thoughts and feelings.  I am temporarily tangible. How lucky.

Two years later.

What was your journey, my family? Where are you now? Are you who you want to be? Did you find your truth? Are the last two years still teaching you? Are you still learning? Have you expanded? Are you where you wanted to end up? If not, go get it.  Run. Look how long, and short the two years were.  Waste not.  There are no rules now! There is no fear now! There is only love, only this moment.  What a gift.

Heal.  Heal now.  I will if you will.


Deena Marie

Fragility.

I've sat down to write a blog here several times over the last few weeks.  I start, I stop.  I hit save instead of publish.  I think I'll come back to it.  I don't.  Snippets come and go through the day and when I think I've got one to expand on, it fizzles.  I can't quite get it together.   Maybe I'm trying a little to hard to make something out of nothing.  Or perhaps if I gather the bits of the nothings and just come here now, they'll form their own something.  Let's try.

I just realized that everything floating around in me lately has to do with opposition.  So many themes, perspectives, observations coming at me from opposing angles.

I have been thinking about judgement.  How unfair it is to judge another.  How deeply hurt I've been from others who I had once considered friends to have judged me.  Then I wonder why it hurts so deeply.  What am I missing from them no longer being in my life? How crucial were they to my life in the first place? Why do I think about it frequently? What do I so desperately want them to understand about me? And why would I feel like I ever needed to explain?

I think about how consciously I work to never judge another.  But I realize I still do it.  Not in big ways.  And that's what's so tricky.  Thoughts can be so sneaky! But I've started to tune in to that barely audible voice that quickly says, "I wouldn't have done that." Or "Why did / didn't he / she do that?"

Wait.  Maybe that's it.  That's the key.  Is this how life works? To dig deeper, spin it back to me, and question what I'm believing in that moment? To take a minute to become a little more aware, and think about what kind of reality I'm creating? What I must believe or not believe to feel this way or that about this person in that moment?

Well damn.

Okay.  I'll take it.  I'll keep learning.  Please, let me keep learning.  I'll keep questioning.  For the love of god, let me keep questioning.

Thoughts.  Thoughts truly are things.  And what fragile things they are.

I'm in love.  I'm in love like never before.  I love you.  What's the opposite of those words? I hate you.  Words must be so carefully chosen.  In any kind of relationship you're just a slip away from words that could damage, alter, or end it all.

Words are things.  And what fragile things they are.

I think about death a lot.  I have since May 27, 2012 and will for the rest of my life.  This is not to say I walk around in doom and gloom.  Quite the opposite.  It made me chose life, and chose to fill my life in a brand new way.  It showed me what matters.  It gave me awareness.  I'm aware I don't get to keep this life.  I'm aware I'm on a set amount of time in this body on this earth.  Let me say it again, I don't get to keep this life.  I don't get to keep my people, either.  I've watched two go, now.  The impact of their deaths rearranged everything inside my head and heart.  

I'm different now.  I saw the switch go off.  We're just a slip away.  From breathing, or not breathing.

Lives are things.  What fragile things they are. 


That's it for now….

Write as if you were dying.

This article from the New York Times was sent to me yesterday by a fellow writer, poet, and all around fabulous lady.  I'm so glad she thought to send this to me.  My brain has been spinning ever since.

Read the full article here: Write Til You Drop by Annie Dillard.  While many sentences and paragraphs jumped out at me, what hit me most were these: 

There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

It's funny (although it's actually perfect) that I just read this because my brain had just bee trying to form a little snippet of poetry similar to this idea.  Something along the lines of, "I want to give you everything.  I want to show you everything I have, and everything I know.  But I'm afraid that if I do, I'll have nothing left for me."

I'm wondering about all of this.  John P. Shanley says, "what you leave out is the story."  And boy, if that's true do I have a story for you.  And boy, if I found out I was dying it would be yours.  Now.  Today.  It would be urgent and it would be out.  But I'm not dying, and I'm afraid to reveal.  I'm also afraid that I'll never reveal.  Is that the fear? That I could die without my story being told?

I have more story.  All that I leave out.  My most personal trials and tribulations.

I also have what I find interesting for reasons hard to explain because I've never read it on any page.  Do I try to explain it? I thought of that last night, actually as I watched the moon for a very long time.  Why the cosmos stir me the way they do.  Why cosmology, astronomy, and science seem the most crucial and important way a human could spend a life.  What I am so inherently sure of when I'm watching the moon without knowing as fact, other than I just know.  Why I have a strong pull to leave the earth.  To see it from the outside.  Why it feels familiar.  Why I know I've been there before.  

So where do I start? 

And what do I do?

How much of myself should I give to you?

Deena Marie

One Year. May 27th.

One year ago yesterday I went to work.  I called them ahead of time to give them a heads up I might need to leave, should I get a call from my mom.  If I got the call, the call, I would know it was serious.  Serious enough to go.  A couple hours in I thought I was in the clear.  Then the phone rang.

I remember what I was wearing.  A black tank top, black blazer, black tights, black flat slip on shoes and a stretchy pink skirt.  I had a gold owl necklace and my long red hair was in curls, parted down the middle.

What was unusual was the winter parka.  My biggest and warmest, and needed this May 26th.  I ran to my car, or tried.  The weather made it hard.  The wind.  The gloom.  Was it raining? And the slipping.  Slipping all down a sidewalk the length of one long city block.  Berries had fallen off the trees overhead and it was so slippery.  I shuffled and slipped and surprisingly didn't fall the whole way to the parking garage.

I think the sun was out at times during my drive on the freeway.  I kept talking to him, out loud even, telling him to hang on.

What I remember most is the sound of his breathing.  Labored and loud and unlike anything I'd ever heard.  I remember the circle of family around his bed.  It was strong and safe and sacred unlike anything I'd ever felt.  The wind was getting louder.  The universe was howling and orchestrating for our story.  It was crying for us.  It was taking him.

"Seven Spanish Angels" was played over and over.  I don't know if I will ever listen to that song again.  When my family began to tell him to "Go to God" I don't know if it was the fact they were releasing him, or the thought of not knowing what was meant by talk of this God that bothered me more.

I slept, the wind screamed, and the circle around him was the eye of the storm.  I've never felt so solid as in that space and so aware of the elements out of control around us.  We would not budge.

I went home.  I woke up in peace the morning of May 27th, in sunshine, the earth had stopped spinning wildly and it was silent.  Purple pajama pants.  A flannel shirt.  My hair was still long, still in curls.  I was on my way back.  Back to the same, I was sure.  But this time it was different.  I would never go back to the same.  What had been was no more, and just like that, it was over.

I'm stopping here for now, as I've exhausted this story for one year.  One year today.  I don't know what I expected to feel, what I should feel, or even how I feel.  I am here, you are here, he is not.  It feels like yesterday.  It feels like this morning.  Yet a lifetime passed me, taught me, broke me, and healed me in this year.  The year of firsts.

The year of firsts is now complete.

Maybe that's all there is to say today.

Thumbs Up

This is the month.  On the 27th it will be the one year mark.  One year since Chuck left.  There's one story I've had and haven't been able to share.  I've wanted to, I just couldn't write it.  I wanted it documented and out in the word but could never find my own words to tell it.  So, I asked my mom.  It took her awhile to be able to do it, but over the weekend, she did.  Here is a very special story in her beautiful words.  May is definitely going to be about honoring our Chuck.

Thumbs Up

I want to share with you a small moment in my family’s life, that made a huge impact! Maybe I should say a moment between my daughter and my brother.  My handsome, humorous, brother Chuck, left us last May. So here we are at almost a year, still contending with shooting pains in our hearts.

What a unique guy my brother was, and I mean that in a most loving way.  Chuck was the prankster of the family, how he came up with some of the jokes he pulled on us is still a mystery.  We were his personal guinea pigs! This teasing also extended to his nieces and nephews.

I’ve told Deena she takes after her uncle Chuck that way.  The have the same humor, and they shared an invisible, mighty bond. 

Chuck was so proud of Deena, from the day she was born, until his last minutes on this earth.

As I ride that hideous roller coaster of sadness, certain memories linger.  One of my favorites happened while he was in the hospital for the last time.

Chuck was rushed by ambulance to the emergency on May 10^th, 2012.  He would be in the hospital for the next two weeks, all but one of those days in the ICU.  There the medical staff hovered over him and did their difficult jobs, and there were many.

Now my Chuck, this bigger than life guy, was on the brink of death.  He lay in his hospital bed, intubated and unconscious.  He was our sleeping giant.  This was a hard part for my family, we hugged and cried and dealt with our crumbling hearts. 

I existed in my stupor, wearing boots made of lead, seeing through gray lenses, and carrying an internal ball of fear.

That was how I functioned last May. 

Around the fourth or fifth day, the doctors decided it was time to wean him off his medications.  This would help determine how sick he really was.  This is the time the silent worry began, if he did wake up, would he be our same Chuck? Had he been oxygen deprived?

The nurses encouraged us to talk to Chuck and touch him during this time.  He began to turn his head toward the sounds of voices.  Or any loud noise.  He became restless, letting a leg hang off his bed.  But we needed more! Please Chuck, just open your eyes! Please give us a sign!

This process lasted maybe two days, it felt like years. 

Deena was on her way to the hospital when I suddenly had this feeling or premonition.  There was going to be a connection between Deena and Chuck! I JUST KNEW! Deena knew it too, she felt it as she walked down the hospital corridor. 

Deena walked into the room, stood at the foot of his bed, and said, “Hi Chuck”.  He raised his arm in the air and gave a big Thumbs Up! Oh my god! Did he just give us our sign?! He had reacted to her after all! I KNEW IT! That darn thumb caused so much emotion and elation at the same time!

Deena and Chuck were truly connected!

My mom burst out crying, which caused a slight domino effect.  But they were tears of joy!

Later mom would say it reminded her of a fairy tale, when the Prince awakens the Princess.  In our case, it was the niece, that woke her uncle!

I can only tell you, that in my minds eye, I relive this miracle moment, over and over. 

And so, to my daughter and big brother, I give you both, a Thumbs Up!

- Lauren Manzanares 

April, 2013

Pieces

I came across a piece of paper with some bits of words and poetry while spring cleaning.  I wanted to hurry and put them here before I lost them for good.  I've been so busy lately with starting a new job, getting ready to go back to school, meeting with advisors, photo shoots, various other appointments, and filming for youtube.  My head is spinning! Nothing is ever spread out.  Life always feels full blast or standing still.

I'm also going to be writing more this year, and sharing it through spoken word on my youtube channel.  I'm very excited about this.  I've already put up my first.  I wanted to just do it and feel it out, with no outside influences.  Now that it's done, I'm ready to delve deep.  I've spent my day off watching some incredible online spoken word performances.  My learning has begun, and I'm off to see some locals next week.

I always have bits of poems and stories in me but I haven't had a chance to get them all out this week.  I managed the beginnings of something the other day and jotted it down before I left for work.

Here are the pieces of all of the above.  I think I'll start giving you pieces here more often.  When they come and I can catch them before they've gone.

You can translate however you like.

When you wonder how they might pertain...well...sometimes they mean nothing.

And sometimes they mean everything.


* * * * *
3.21.2013

Sometimes I am rendered immobile with worry
I will never be capable of loving anything
but the unattainable


* * * * *
2012

I feel in words.
I document as the only way I know how.
In poem.


* * * * *
Spring 2012 (probably April or early May)

So many pairs of eyes fixed upon a monitor of sorts
that none of us can read or speak or translate
to any sort of comfort or explanation
I cannot take my eyes off my mother.
I see her as she must have ben at five.
She is a child.
Right down to the ponytail she wears
at her big brothers bedside.
We wait.
One collective breath.
This room is so full.
So silent and so full.
The air is rich.
Absolutely rich with memories.
It is palpable.

* * * * * *

The story of the Bluebird

I can't believe I'd forgotten to write about the bluebird.  I can only guess that at the time it felt private so I didn't get into it, and then so much has happened since I'd just never shared it.  I've meant to.

This happened when I was in NYC at the end of last year.  It was on the night I went to Sleep No More.  Looking back over my blog it was the night of October 8, only I know it was pretty late after the show, drinks, pizza, and finally getting on the subway.  So it must have been during the first moments of October 9th, 2012.

John (my friend who I stayed with) and I got on the subway and we were still wearing our masks from Sleep No More pushed up onto our heads.  We had a bit of a ride ahead of us, and we'd just started to settle in the doors opened and a lady got on and sat next to us.  She asked what our masks were for.

When I'm in NYC I have to change, I have to adapt to a new pace and lifestyle.  I have to toughen up and fight a little more, at all times.  I have to brave heckling and unwelcome conversation from men, homeless people, and strangers daily.  It's draining for me.  I purposely close off.  For some reason though, in the split second (that felt like a minute) of deciding how to proceed with this lady sitting down with us and clearly about to engage us in conversation something inside me said, "be open", so I changed my go to reaction to shut out this stranger, and instead turned toward her and told her we'd just come from a show.

I'm not sure how old I'd guess she was.  In her 60's? I'm really bad at telling age.  She was plump.  Happy.  Jolly.  She's someones mom, I thought.  She was by herself and had a lot of stuff with her.  I was instantly curious why she was alone so late.  What was someones mom doing so late on the subway alone? Where had she come from? Where was she going to?

I liked her immediately.  It was weird.  Like how you just know sometimes that someone is good, or even a little special.  She talked my ear off the entire way, and never once did I try to nudge John to save me or get him involved in the conversation.  I spent the whole ride listening to her and asking questions.  It was bizarre, but I felt like I was supposed to see what this was all about.

I'm friendly, but I am not nor will I ever be the person who plops down and meets a friend on a subway or plane or in a line at a store.  I just don't do that.  I don't talk to strangers.

She talked first about Liam Neeson which reminded me of my mom (her crush) which led into a very long story about her sister teaching Natasha Richardson in a Montessori school and how sad it was when she died, which somehow (and I'm still not sure how this even came up) led to her singing "There'll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of dover".  At times she was a little quite, hard to hear so bits got lost on me.  But when she sang this I perked right up.

That's my Grandpas song! He sang that all the time growing up.  That song and my Grandpa are synonymous.  I was so excited I told her she was the only other person I'd ever hear sing that song.  Then just as she'd begun to as me about my Grandpa, we reached our stop.

She was a bit eccentric, but so nice.  I knew there was something about this exchange that had been special, but the skeptic in me was still waiting for the crazy to come out as I had to abruptly end the conversation and get off.  Wait for it, wait for it, brace for the crazy, I thought.  But no.  Not ever.  Not one bit.  She made our goodbye the most natural thing in the world, and actually, I was the one who came off as a awkward when I left.

As we walked to the apartment, John said he wasn't sure if I'd needed him to save me.  I said no, she was great and how weird that was that I'd just met a sweet, not one bit crazy lady that sang me my grandpas song!

One month and one day later, my Grandpa died.

When we planned his funeral I said to my mom, we have to play "There'll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of dover".  She'd forgotten about the song! It was played.  I listened to it a couple of times when he first passed, then when it was played at the funeral.  I haven't been able to listen to it since.  I don't want to.  Yet.  I'll post it here, but even when I go to get it I won't have the sound on so I don't accidentally hear.  THE SONG. 

I still keep thinking about my strange exchange.  What was that? It was different.  It was meaningful.  I knew it then and I knew it now.

In writing about it, it seems like the conversation went mom, death, grandpa.  And my mom was there visiting my grandparents when he died.  Was this a foreshadowing? It didn't pick up on death or bad news on the subway or at all over the next month and one day.  I only picked up on my grandpa.  Whatever that meant.

I was talking about this again with my mom a couple of days ago.  She said that in the final weeks of his life, my Grandpa asked about me and talked about me more than anyone.  He was constantly asking how I was doing in NYC and when the hurricane hit he kept asking if I was okay.  She said I was on his mind, and that he'd gotten a message to me.

I don't know if I believe in guardian angles, or if I even know what that means, but that's what she felt like.  I don't know how else to explain it.

But it was something.

Something...else.

I knew it then.

I know it still.

My Grandpa.

My bluebird.

Make Room

I planned to do some kind of year in review blog, but I'm not sure how to approach that one this time.  I was a word alchemist this year more than ever.  At least publicly.  I translated my guts to the page time and time again.  Many of those times I felt as though something else was speaking through me.  How do I fit eternity into one post by a certain date? What I can best say about my journey of 2012 has already been said.  By Rumi, of course.

“Sorrow prepares you for joy. It violently sweeps everything out of your house, so that new joy can find space to enter. It shakes the yellow leaves from the bough of your heart, so that fresh, green leaves can grow in their place. It pulls up the rotten roots, so that new roots hidden beneath have room to grow. Whatever sorrow shakes from your heart, far better things will take their place.”
~Rumi 

That says it all, but here's my attempt at a bit more:

This was the year.
This was the year I saw death.
It racked my bones and broke them to dust.

I said goodbye.  Loss ran rampant over me more times than you'd believe,
even if I told you about each and every one of them, The Losses.
At times so big, so shatteringly big, I am in awe of my survival.

My heart broke.
Again.  And again.  And again.  Ba boom! 
I got a new tattoo.
I am.  I am.  I am.  Ba boom! 
It was the worst summer of my life.
It was the summer of animals.
It was the summer of running.  Anything to keep moving.

This was the year my limits were lifted.
I saw my confinements clearly.  The invisible labels and restraints only I had placed.
I saw them lift.  Like a shutter, up they snapped and dissipated.
The one great gift death and death alone can bring.
There he laid, there I sat.  There they went. 
This was the year I saw with my own eyes we are not our physical bodies.
I am not my weight, my height, my hair, my age.
I am all, and all is me, and always has been, and always will be.  
I am enough, and you are, too.  You are another me, I am another you.

This was the year of the soul.
The only thing I'm now sure of.
My eyes deceive me, my body betrays me, but my soul...
My soul has never led me astray.
I was let out, I transcended.  I saw heaven.

Psychosomatic as it may be,
I experienced my Uncle's sickness for months when he left.
My heart hurt and my hands went numb for my Grandpa when he was gone.
My imagined fear let out, I went on a six week artistic sabbatical.
I gathered up all I could to add to my Big Life.
To expand myself and bring it back to keep.

This was the year of The Winter's Tale.  A sad tale was best for winter.
Hermione found me and gave me the ultimate healing,
and Shakespeares words patched me back together.

Death came a second time.  Nobody told me how greedy Death is. 
The rug pulled out from under me and all my comfort shattered once again.
I spiraled in when it should have been out (but deep down this time I knew better),
and so I saved myself one sunday night.
Promising myself that even though people always leave me on the weekend,
Monday I can chose to come back to life and throw myself even deeper into the opposite of fear.

I will chose.
I will chose to give my moments Meaningful Shape.
I choose the better story.

I will respond to you, soul.  To the call from the stars.
To the Athena's before me, and Comsic Alchemists who follow,
I will pave your way with a golden story in which you'll remember you're not alone.
You've been here before, and will be again.

There is only hope.
There is only forward.
And I am free.


Tweet me: @DeenaMarie