Reconciling Great Love Lost

How does one reconcile the loss of  what we cellularly feel as “great Love”? How does one trust after having the love of your life leave suddenly, violently? How does one trust again when someone who you trust so deeply turns on you?

My divorce from two years ago is rearing its head, and I am realizing and finally acknowledging the true effects of what happened. I loved this 3rd husband with more of my heart and soul than the others. I loved all of them, or I would not have married them. I loved them deeply, but my first one was fraught with mental abuse and generally unmeetable expectations on both sides. I was so young.

My second one, we let each other live our lives. He was very good to me, except that he was not faithful to me, and never admitted it, even though I caught him over and over. After 6 years, I realized I could never trust him again, and left. I loved him, I accepted him, and I found him help, and I knew I deserved more.

With my third husband, the stars aligned to bring us together.  I feel like a kook when I say this, except that it’s TRUE. We looked at each other after our first kiss, and both said, without hesitation, that this was not our first lifetime doing this. We merged. Our lives merged. Our soul journey merged. And, in retrospect, this wasn’t the healthiest thing. I will say, though, that I finally felt safe. And the instant I felt safe, he threatened divorce (SO out of the blue), and we went downhill from there. He tried to take it back 3 minutes later, but the damage was done……he was gone just under 10 months later.

But enough of that. Now, now….NOW, I don’t know what love should feel like. I want excitement, desire, trust, comfort, Knowing….acceptance. I am fully willing to give that. And last night, as I sit wondering if the current object de mi corazon is thinking of me and wishing he was….I realized that what missed from all 3 husbands was their curiosity of ME. None of them wanted to know ALL of me. And while the first 2 did not reject me for my dark side, my third one certainly did.

But it’s not just the dark side. They were not curious about my dreams, my aspirations, what makes me tick, what ticks me off. They did not ask me what turned me on. My first was very explorative in bed, but none of them showed an interest and ability to meet me. I can see that I was not able to meet myself, so it makes sense. My third, same thing. He showed enough curiosity to quell my fears, to find out how to capture me, but the curiosity didn’t last.

Now, I find myself wanting companionship, wanting love, wanting someone to want to be with me. I felt wanted by my husbands, but perhaps I gave myself too quickly. I have virtually reconnected with the person I lost my virginity to many moons ago. He says he reminisces about our times together (24 years later). I thought I meant nothing. He asked how I am, and I told him that I am now guarded, and that I want a man to knock on the door of my heart, and not stop, until I am ready to answer the door, until I trust he means it. 

I am tired of being the second option. I am tired of being with untrustworthy men. I don’t want second best. I want soul-shaking love, the one that allows me to blossom fully. I feel it best to remain guarded somewhat, but then how does love come in? Is there anyone out there emotionally healthy that also is willing to go the extra mile to show his interest in me? Who is willing to stay open through it all? Who loves himself enough to choose love over loneliness and protection?

I could say the same to myself, and I do. I like someone. I open up, but like a flower, I will close my petals when the sun isn’t shining. I may not bloom again, at least not for that person. Life is too short for being second choice. Life is too short for so-so love. I just don’t know if I will ever feel mutual love again, but I hope and I remember, and I ache inside, and I try and give myself more love to ease the ache. But it hurts to lose love, and it hurts to not have someone to lean into and to trust.

God, I want to trust again. I so want to be able to trust again….


In The Mirror

I feel sick to my stomach, and all I want to do is lie down and pass out. How did I end up with a freaking complexion mirror for this prompt? I know it will only bring out the OCD in me, the nit picker, the critic, the one who is never happy.

I don’t want to look at my self, so I remove myself from the room to lie down, but am uncomfortable still, and walk back into a room of women staring intently at themselves. I need my blankie.

Excuse Me. Hope I’m not disturbing what I am so desperately resisting doing.

I feel sick, and the couch and my blankie feel perfect. Lying back, I let another long belch out. Between cramps and digestion issues, I couldn’t be further from comfortable, so let’s just dig in! How about that eczema?! Take a look closer, because, you know, you Have to in order to not go cross-eyed with these mirrors.

I can’t see the whole picture, just exaggerated bits, like every single pore, clogged, the etching of the past 2 years on my face, the whiskers. Holy HELL! When did 2 whiskers become 5, …..8?!

Skip to the eyes, the seat of the soul. Icy blue, unmoving, challenging – don’t pass. It’s easier to look from the side. Fuck, I don’t want to do this. That’s why I write abstract. I don’t want to reveal the boring truth that I am not as happy as I claim to be, that I don’t believe myself, that I believe my critic, that I hate the way my body feels, and I don’t want to touch or see my own body.

It’s the same old shit, day in, day out, and it hasn’t gone away. Years of therapy, eating disorder treatment, meditation, blah, blah….it’s still there waiting to eat me alive.

Oh yeah, the mirror…..ever notice that you can actually see through the mirror? No, like an optical trick, so you don’t have to see the detail, just an essence of you overlaid on what’s behind the mirror.

Ah, this I can do. Golden strands of hair between my hand and the canned lighting above me, and if I move the mirror to touch my face, I can put the can where my pupil should be.

This should be easy, right? I talk about life and people as your mirror all the fucking time. It’s easy to talk about others, to reflect to others. I don’t want to see my reflection. I don’t like what I see anymore. I try. You know, self-love, that illusive state of self-acceptance and compassion. Flighty mother-fucker she is!

Some days, the reflections of others are enough to override my own demons. Other days, they only incite the heavy tongue of my…..what shall we call that voice?

It doesn’t matter – because when that critic comes in, it doesn’t leave room for anything else. It shuts the blinds on light, snuffs the hearth, locks away the instruments, and pins the body immobile. Like a black hole, it sucks the breath out, and all your vitality with it…

God, the mirror. I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t like what it reflects. It’s not true. I guess I am a good person. I do mean well, but I am always waiting to be called out. I want to be. Someone tell me I am full of shit, please, about anything, because I want truth. I want it more than anything. I can handle truth.

It’s gotta be better than the tale I spin around the voices in my head. My grandmother was schizophrenic. I once walked in on her talking with God. “God, you know, you just need to cut off his big toe,” she said, very assuredly and matter of factly.

I grew up looking in the mirror, analyzing every centimeter of my 95-pound ballerina body. 3% bodyfat was as low as I could go before my body started eating itself. One day, I sat in the shower stall, slumped in the corner considering suicide. I was convinced I was fat, and perhaps it would be easier to end it than to deal with these voices, these incessant voices.

So, I really don’t like mirrors. They remind that dark side of me of what I am NOT.

And our time is up, and I haven’t really gone anywhere but in circles, and I am loving lying in my sea of blue today.

*Day 1 of “Writing Back to the Body” with Kate Gray and Sarah Byrden in Hood River, OR


Tar Baby

Full, distended, smaller bites please

I can’t digest this muddled morass of happenings

Slow down little rabbit, take a breath,

come near

to what’s dear.

I cannot hear the echo of my longings

too much to digest


Tar baby, sleep it off, let dreams fly.

When it’s too much, I want to purge,

but is that not wasteful?

Too much to digest

Swallow it all. Swallow the pride.

Swallow the pain.

Pretty bird, don’t chirp. I’ll swallow you too.

Stuck halfway down, a-flutter, feathers

heavy with swallowed tears.

Churn, baby, churn — let loose your sluggishness

Oh, to purge all this.

It’s too much to digest.

It seeps out my pores, my eyes, fills my insides

with tar, slow, heavy tar.

Tar baby, Burn!

Stoke the fire, so small, so small

Let the smoke of wet flesh burn the

caverns of your soul.

Churning, burning, purging

I can’t see through you,

I can’t feel into you.

Hiding there in my body

Drawing the drapes over my eyes

Shrouding the seat of my power, my vitality.

But I remember sunshine, and white light pulsating,

piercing the darkness, penetrating the void

Burning purity

I remember the halo, the satisfaction


like a distant land, a country visited, perhaps in a dream…

but a dream…

certainly dreams come true.

I once was a tree, a weeping willow,

draping tall and lithe over a puddle

and a plum dropped right through me

Sending ripples along my waters

out to tendrils of my longing..

And birds nestled in my throat

tickling my hair and singing my joy.

I was wholly me,

yet not of my body.


Floating within

Dripping ease

Fluid, time-stripped

Pure essence

The memory – too much to digest

Turn it off, tone it down, forget.

I can’t reconcile where I was to where I am.

I can’t digest the losses I have endured

And it is mine to bare.

Burrow down, rabbit. Sleep it off.

Let the night slumbers

Shroud your sorrow.

*Day 1 of “Writing Back to the Body” with Kate Gray and Sarah Byrden in Hood River, OR


When I Breathe Out

When I breathe out,

the waves rush through me

sputtering along the rocky edges

spewing foam

only to leave me barren




agony, grief, despair hiss hot

scorching my tongue

brittle dry, crunchy earth of love

desolate womb, unborn’s empty cry

pomegranate heart

sand-filled buddha body



gravity’s sculpture

mound of barren truth

unknown beginnings

**written Day 1 at a retreat with Kate Gray and Sarah Byrden in Hood River, OR



Pixons of a mirror

Trying to capture what it’s like when I am writing with all of my senses alight.

Last night, nestled in my chair, super soft blanket resting on my legs that felt so tired, heavy, relenting.

Wondering, ‘How does one tie kinesthetic experience with visual, with emotional, all into one image?’ For when any aspect has focus, it is seeing the others through its own lens. It is a trifecta of 2 additional possibilities = endless possibilities, like pixons* of a mirror.

What I see is me writing-what I hear is what I see inside, what I feel emotionally has physical sensation, which has a visualization to match, always still watching myself write. Each sensation has a visualization of energy, movement, texture, that overlays my visual and physical reality.

Someday, I may be able to both experience this completely emcompassing physical, sensual, mental, emotional experience and write about it…. but for now, I made up the word pixon. Or so I thought. Seems it was already a thing with NASA.

*I totally made this word up in the moment…


Anxiety …All.The.Time.

Over the past couple of months, it has become more and more clear to me that I have a fairly constant level of anxiety….pretty much most of the time I am awake. It’s often at a low level, or maybe just low for me. If others could get inside my head, they might think different. Sometimes, it rears its head as frustration, exhaustion, anger, overwhelm.

I realized it in my resistance to feel, or to do things until I felt just right, in my inability to feel comfortable in certain situations. When I bring it up, friends say they don’t see it, but having felt total EASE in my life, I am aware of the resistance inside.

Lately, I am in limbo in life. I want to make some big changes, but it’s not quite time, and I am in a holding pattern, which is cRaZy anxiety-provoking for me! I want a plan I can execute, but I just spin and spin and spin. And when I stop, it feels unnerving (and that’s a sign I need to dig in)…so I stopped. I stopped planning, stopped figuring out what to DO, stopped feeling I had to be doing more, and I journaled. And I want to share what came out, because somehow I had let my inner critic run amok in my brain, and it’s cost me so much joy.

Anxiety, it’s driving me to obsession

I don’t know what life is without anxiety

-over what I look like (according to my inner critic)

-over what I “need” to do

-not having a plan

-my Body

-Not knowing enough

-not eating healthy enough

-not exercising enough

-not pretty enough

-not skinny enough

-not muscular enough

-not flexible enough

-not focused enough

Do you see a pattern here?    NOT ENOUGH

Not only am I hearing that inside my head, but it clearly doesn’t matter the subject, because the message is that it’s NOT ENOUGH.

So, I took it further into things that I feel more ok about, and then I had a thought…anything I have received praise for, or that has gotten me in a position of praise is subject to this critic. There are some things in my life that don’t bother me as much. And those things I didn’t get praise for doing so well. Like how I brush my teeth, or shower, or fold my laundry. I gave up on my hair a while ago, although I still get on myself for being “lazy” for not wanting to do anything with it, but only occasionally, and only very briefly.

And because it’s uncomfortable hearing this all day in my head, I (and everyone in society) do things to alleviate the anxiety caused by hearing and feeling that we are Not Enough.

Not enough for what?!? 

Not enough to manage the anxiety.

Let me repeat/rephrase that.

What we are doing in those situations is only trying to manage the anxiety we are feeling, and it’s never enough to manage the anxiety, because at some point, we have to stop. We have to slow down and feel.

We feel like when we “fix” these things, the critic will stop, so we go about dieting and exercising, and working harder, and having goals, and perfecting things, all to try and quell the anxiety, to quiet the critic and hear, if not from ourselves, then from others, that we are doing enough.

And it never ends. This cycle will not stop until we do.

What’s it like to BE ENOUGH? 

Not that you will never excel, but that at each moment, you are enough. I think that is when we excel the most, actually. The critic only serves to stall us and keep us small.

So, when the critic starts, and when the anxiety presents, I can STOP. FEEL. and KNOW.



Bathtime musings 1-25-17 …Authentic Embodiment

Recorded January 25th, 2017

Drippy thoughts on #Emotions and our resistance to them, our bodies as channels in the organism of the universe, and how it is beyond time that we fully embody what we feel so that the world can speak through us. We are part of a collective that needs our authentic embodiment.


Let Vigilance Rest

Recorded Feb 14, 2017

I used to think I wanted a man to take care of me, because I was tired of doing it all myself. I came to realize that it had more to do with the ease I feel around competent people. Check out the audio for the realization.


Grounding into Simplicity

Loving using audio blogs, because I can catch more things.

Thoughts after #sivasana about drifting into nothingness, the resistance that comes with that, and how, amazingly that translates into the anxiety in my life, and how I can feel more grounded in this ever-changing world.

What can I anchor into in order to feel steady in this ever-changing world?


Choreographing Life- transcript

Recorded January 2017

So, I spoke with (counselor) today at work about what’s up for me, and I told her that last night, I was sitting, and it became very clear to me that I’ve been running for 2 years, since my divorce, and that I feel like it’s time to FEEL it. And I have all these things going on that are either distractions, or….it’s just all up for me right now.

She said, “I picture you, you know, making a dance of what you’re going through….like, choreographing a dance maybe around your divorce” and it really hit me hard..and I’m driving home, and it’s like…it’s pretty clear to me that I started dancing more and instantly I started shutting down, because when you dance, you feel more, you’re moving energy through your body, and you have to allow those energies through in order to dance, and just by the act of dancing, you open up channels that are maybe trying to be blocked…..

So, I’m just having an image of the therapeutic power of allowing the story to play through our body and to orchestrate that story and to be conscious of how that story is played out and how it WAS played out, and how we move forward into the world…and how our physical movement in the world and our energetic movement in the world, interaction with people, is no different…it’s no different.

And to choreograph a dance that illustrates the TRUE story of what happened could be profound. My first thought is to go learn about choreography more, and to dive into that, and about storytelling and the power of story, and find a way to combine the two in a way that can really empower people to understand what’s happened to them in a different way and to change their course consciously or to act out somehow what’s happening internally that they can’t put words to, because these energetic shifts… we can try and use our brain and rationalize it….or braini-ize it, or whatever you want to call it, but it doesn’t… at some point, you gotta just give that up, and the body starts talking. This might be a way to help listen to the body too. It’s amazing how one small suggestion, when I look at it, I see the potential for it, and that’s where dance therapy comes in ….

(sigh)……yeah…dance therapy. I like it. I wish there were more programs for it. I would be willing to see how to make that work.