The Most Exciting Adventure...

“We are all functioning at a small fraction of our capacity to live fully in its total meaning of loving, caring, creating and adventuring. Consequently, the actual seizing of our potential can become the most exciting adventure of our lifetime.”  

– Herbert Otto

sweet friends,

this is your permission slip to slap me if you see new posts here that aren't entitled "I FINISHED MY BOOK!"

with all my heart, i want to finish my book by march 1st. i also want to do a whole slew of other art that i can't tell you about quite yet. so, in the name of truly diving into the adventure of a lifetime, i'm giving myself permission to break from the blogosphere & social media worlds. if you see me here or there, permission to kindly escort me back to the land of wild unknown words and stories hidden in the dark.

howevah, if you'd like to cheer me on from afar, i will definitely take you up on the offer. send me an email (rachmadlove@gmail.com), subject line MAKE YOUR ART and i may occasionally send you a story, poem, song, photo... just for fun. and, for the sense that i'm not totally isolated or alone. ; )

i love you. merry merry everything.
gratitude to the moon and back.
and leaping lusting shade of love from the universe of uncharted worlds,
rachael

ps--i changed up my coaching business. radically. it's the best. i'm so happy about it. 100% honest and true. no sales. just service. yesssss. 
pps--we had a global love apocalypse. it was so lovely. pics from DC are here.

change, change, change

do you ever get the feeling
that your face has changed?
not because you can notice,
(the same way you can't notice
when the kid grows
an inch),
but because sometimes
you feel yourself smiling,
your forehead releasing, like
shoulders, when someone reminds
you to relax,
and suddenly it seems
that all the worst kinds of wrinkles
you've been chiseling into your dreams
are being quietly erased--
making way
for the kind of grace
that grows age like
honor-marks
wisdom-words
laughter leaving your lips
tumbling into a room of
youth, needing more than even you
the reminder that this life
is not meant to kill you
while you're still awake.
no, in this life, after darkness
comes the day
and even all those changes--
even they, will change

The Imperative of Kindness

Kindness
by Naomi Shihab Nye

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and
     purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you every where
like a shadow or a friend.



~~~~~~~~~


For you, in case you're waking up with a certain shade of sorrow day after day, as I've been, for longer than I care to admit. 

To our collective courage, our small acts of self love and care, and kindness that travels with us wherever we may go... eventually, this is a kindness we shall know.

your art

he told me

when i told him

that i can't bare

to make any more

dark art

when i told him

that my heart

couldn't handle it

he told me

to stay longer

nothing only gets darker and darker

stay through

to the light

it's right

underneath

that pile of grief

don't fight

where you are--

it's your art

all the world

dear sun,

in the end,

is there always a rush

to do what we must

to see all the world

as beautiful?

The Object of Art: Wild Writing by Oscar Wilde... and Me

the combination

of your profile

and oscar wilde essays

today

has me writing fantastical

poetry

and pretending 

like i don't care

that love will 

kill me

100 times 

before i die

~~~

The object of art is to stir the most divine and remote of the chords which make music in our soul; and colour is indeed, of itself a mystical presence on things, and tone a kind of sentinel.

But remember that there never has been an artistic age, or an artistic people, since the beginning of the world. The artist has always been, and will always be, an exquisite exception. There is no golden age of art; only artists who have produced what is more golden than gold.

Of course it is difficult, but then art was never easy; you yourselves would not wish it to be easy; and, besides, nothing is worth doing except what the world says is impossible.

When Art surrenders her imaginative medium she surrenders everything.

~Lecture to Art Students, by Oscar Wilde

The proper school to learn art in is not Life but Art.

Things are because we see them, and what we see, and how we see it, depends on the Arts that have influenced us. To look at a thing is very different from seeing a thing. One does not see anything until one sees its beauty. Then, and then only, does it come into existence. At present, people see fogs, not because there are fogs, but because poets and painters have taught them the mysterious loveliness of such effects.

No great artist ever sees things as they really are. If he did, he would cease to be an artist. 

~The Decay of Lying: An Observation, by Oscar Wilde

I don't regret for a single moment having lived for pleasure. I did it to the full, as one should do everything that one does. There was no pleasure I did not experience. I threw the pearl of my soul into a cup of wine. I went down the primrose path to the sound of flutes. I lived on honeycomb. But to have continued the same life would have been wrong because it would have been limiting. I had to pass on. The other half of the garden had its secrets for me also.

To regret one's own experiences is to arrest one's own development. To deny one's own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one's own life. It is no less than a denial of the soul.

It is tragic how few people ever 'possess their souls' before they die. 'Nothing is more rare in any man,' says Emerson, 'than an act of his own.' It is quite true. Most people are other people. Their thoughts are some one else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.

~De Profundis, by Oscar Wilde

the most radical

and original

works

i've ever 

birthed

were leaving my husband

and driving out 

to my lover

with nothing

but the unknown

a pair of blue jeans

and a tooth brush

Creating Closure: Letters from Past Lovers, Written by... You.

(I've decided this is possible. In an infinite inside, out kinda way.)

Alright sweethearts,

Anyone else been on a crash course in dating? I've effectively fallen in lust/love with three people in the past six months. Let's not discuss my rounds on OK Cupid. Maybe, like my dad said on the phone this morning, Loneliness is some stroooong shit. The VOID... It's rough! 

I'm playing up the full moon lunar eclipse in my life, letting it ritualize the end of this 6 month exploration in rebound romance, and the beginning of a life-long love affair with my incredible, brilliant and beautiful self. YUP.

So. I needed to get out my goodbyes. We all know though that sometimes, even if you knock on the door of the past to make peace, no one answers. Sometimes, closure's up to you.

This is for you, if you want to move on with the sweet, tender, sad, holy truth as your most trusted companion:

A letter template for Creating Closure

Instructions: This is more an exercise in channeling, since you're not technically the narrator of this tale. Close your eyes for a moment and meditate on the person's energy and truth. Not what you want their energy or truth to be, but what's really there when you strip away your desires.

This person has something honest to tell you. About how they feel. About how they see you. About what they wish for you. About what they can and cannot offer. Listen up, love. Let the truth spill forth. There's freedom in it. And a lot of times, if you never listen close, you don't hear it. In the unspoken spaces, your rambling mind creates myths and mayhem that keep you in a holding pattern. It's not time for that, anymore. It's time to rest in the truth, and let it all wash out in the rain.

Dear [your name], 

Here's the truth I know you need to hear in order to move on: _______________. 

What I really have to offer is ______________. What I really can't offer is _____________.

What I really wish for you is ______________. 

I haven't had the courage to tell you ______________. 

But I think the reason why I showed up in your life is to help you learn _______________. 

I wish you all the best. Really. Truly. You deserve ______________. 

Love,

[their name] 

Here's the trick! You don't have to like what their letter says! Also, you don't have to follow this template. I wrote 5 letters to myself. One of them was two sentences. 'Cause the truth is, that guy was a minimalist. Also--your letter can be from a whole slew of people. One of mine is from "the lost boys & girls". (Boy, did they have a lot to teach me!!!)

Alright, loves. Go forth. Give yourself the moments of truth you haven't been able to get. Close the doors that need closing. It's in your power.

With all of these templates, only do them if they speak to you. There's no rush. No pressure. Be natural. It might not be time.

xoxox,
rachael

PS--This is the kind of template we might create if we work together in a coaching setting. Except personalized and tailored to your immediate situation. Hop over here to learn more.

When It's Time to Move On: Four Powerful Questions for Honoring All That's Been

How do you really move on?

I've been meditating on this question for months. It's a biggie. And there's no simple answer. The dance between moving forward and sinking in is delicate after major life blow-ups or slow-burn let downs.

Yesterday, I offered a Tough-Love letter template for when you know it's time to move forward. Today's questions are more of the sinking in variety. Contemplate. Reflect on where you've been and what you've learned. Make meaning. Make inner-peace. And reach inward for clues about where you're headed next.

Four Powerful Questions for moving through big transitions with honesty and grace:

1. Where have I been?
What land am I leaving? What happened there and with whom? What's been significant? How has it felt? Metaphorically and truly? You don't have to forget. You can tell the story of the way it's been. You can honor what's happened--because it did. It happened. It really happened. Be honest. All the way.

2. What do I want to forgive?
In myself? Others? The world? The simple-way-it-was that I'm ready to lay to rest? The idea that got killed? The let down? You don't have to hold on. You can let the rage in your heart unwind. You can breathe into who you are now because of all the things you never wanted to be so. And you can forgive the parts of yourself you still don't adore. It's all in motion. Everything's progress.

3. What do I want to celebrate?
In myself? Others? The world? What deserves an applause or bow? Who or what do I normally dismiss, downplay or deny? What am I most proud of? You don't have to hate it all. You can cry tears of joy for what was good. You can laugh and dance, hoot and holler, simply smirk over that one tiny moment no one knows about but you.

4. What am I calling in?
What's next? Tangible and intangible? How do I want to feel? Who am I becoming? Metaphorically and truly? You don't have to hold on to old dreams, old hopes. You can listen for what's calling you now, put words to intuitive hunches--deep and raw desires. A new context of self awaits you. You're already becoming it, always. 

~~~~~

These questions are heart opening, so give yourself some sacred time to dive in. Write your answers as you will. In a letter to yourself, on tiny slips of paper, on the bathtub tiles with your fingertips. 

Fortunately for us, today's a really wonderful time to meditate on these questions. It's the second lunar eclipse of the year, and lunar eclipses usually mark endings or culmination points. Perfect for sinking into the truth of what's profound and obvious now, after a deep exploration of heart and soul. Ruminate, sweethearts. Let the truth simmer sweetly.

Honor, Celebrate, Forgive, Envision.

Madlove to you, deep & wide... and all my trust in your journey,

Rachael

A Tough-Love Letter Template for the Changing Tides

Look--I'm a process girl. I believe in being with every shade of emotion that's out there, and letting the "bad" ones live for as long as they need. But sometimes, they've lived their lifecycle, and it's time for a change. The dog days need to be over. Your funk has rotted. It's time to compost it, let it grow into something new.

You know it's time when your stories, longings, resentments or fears sound so played out that you want to throw your brain out the window so you don't have to hear yourself say, "I guess this will eventually pass" ONE. MORE. TIME. Eventually has arrived.

(If you're reading this thinking... I don't think it's time yet, head HERE for some encouragement around tenderness).

It's possible that the get-real urgency is cosmic. Mercury's out of retrograde and the second lunar eclipse of the year is tomorrow. People are ready to dive into something new, to get the wheels turning on a new road, to make distance.

So, if you're one of those people (like I am these days!) who just can't stand the same old spot any longer, perhaps it's time for a Tough-Love letter. Sweet and Supportive did her job. (Thank you, darling). It's time to light a fire under your ass. Today.

Here's a template for the ready-spirit. I came up with it last night for myself. It's coachy... and really helpful. ;)

Tomorrow, you can stop back in for a gratitude letter template to the you you're growing out of.

~~~~~

Dear [Name],

This is a tough love letter. I'm only writing it because I believe in you and your deepest health and happiness so fully, and I know, plain and simple, you could use a kick in the ass right now.

The truth is, the time for ______ is over. No more dragging your feet. It's time for ______. Like really.

Yes, ______ and ______ were important because ______, but now, you're ready for ______.

So if you want it, get serious about the shit that's in the way.

If you want to feel ______ you're going to have to stop ______. Plain and fucking simple. Instead, ______.
If you want ______ quit ______ already! Start ______.
If you want ______ then stop ______. ______, instead.

[Repeat variations of the above sentences as many times as needed. With as many "come on all-fucking-ready"s as feels sincere.]

You CAN ______.
You can also ______.
And in case those fall through, you can always ______.
Whatever it takes for ______. Because it's fucking time. You can't ______ anymore. You just CAN'T.

If you keep going down that old road of ______, ______, and ______, you'll probably end up ______.

The truth is, you're meant for ______!!!!

Own your part in this process. DO your part. You've waited long enough. You've paid your dues. It's time. It's simply time.

I dare you to ______.

Crazy love & steadfast belief,
Your inner tough-love mama

~~~~~

Alright, sages. Let's do this! Feel free to post your letter on your blog and link back in the comments, or shoot them my way via e-mail. I'd love to see 'em!

xoxox,
rachael

how to make a kissing booth

Because it's winter again and who doesn't love a little old fashioned mischief?
Because our youth longs to be embodied at every age.
Because who needs the crap in the closet anyway?
Because play is the antidote to 100 shitty feelings.
Because every good holiday party has one.

Polling ideas for the next silly dream-like household transformation in the comments below.

xoxox ;-)
rach

new red shoes

lace up your
new red shoes
in the morning
of your new
dark room

yellow light
glowing through
the doubt of day--
that eery thought
that maybe
the sun won't
really shine
on you

walk outside
over shattered glass
that no one ever
sweeps
and piles of
leaves
that never protested
their falling down--
not even a shout

sink into your
new black leather seats
the cocoon in which
you drive the streets
with the top down
and a cold ground
coming up
from the underworld
of love

when you lay down
at the end of the day
and you think the dark
will stay
longer than you can
stand
know that this is
why there is night

to sleep
instead of fight
to rest
in the dark
to do nothing
as things fall apart
when there's really
nothing to do
anyway

there will always be red shoes
someone
lacing them up
in a dawn of sadness
wondering
if there will ever
be gladness
again

there will always be
questions
we don't really
need to ask--
circles
though which
we must pass--
masks
of night
and day

mournings
we cannot
save
ourselves from

the saddest thing of all

the saddest thing of all

isn't the heartbreak

isn't the death

isn't the loss

for those things, we rationalize--

we know

in our minds

we all must face them

it's the wall 

we begin to build

brick by brick

around our hearts

it's the moat

we begin to dig

in unrelenting motions

for the next 

impending flood

it's the ways 

we no longer stay new

to beauty

once we know

in our bones

that everything goes

like we've given up

on glory

like we have no time

for the simplest risk 

of being alive

and feeling it

Novice Knitter, Tangled Yarn

will someone please teach me how to knit?

weave one string through the next 

until eventually, everything makes enough sense to wear?

i'm naked with strings in knots,

hands holding bundles--of what?

what do you call a tangled thread 

bright and beautiful

but unusable?

do you put it in a drawer

for the day when someone patient 

and tending comes to do the untying?

do you snip it up into pieces,

short, partial

but at least there's something there

to salvage?

what about the knot?

the part that never comes unlocked?

like an artery near the heart

that broke, lost half its pieces

never makes the same shape again?

some things can't ever be glued back together

like string

everything a bit too tasseled at the edges

frayed at the rims

it doesn't matter 

that you long for the way it was

in the beginning

when things were neatly wound

in a wondrous order of

tidy and together

no, sometimes we must rely on 

small scraps tied with knots

stitching together a frumpy sweater

without even knowing how to knit

sometimes that's the closest

we can get 

to being clothed

in the winter

just be whatever

my sweet friend, andrew, one lovely afternoon in early fall

just be twenty five
or however old you are
or however young you are
or however wreckless or uptight or loose you are

just be a beginner
or an old fucking pro
or jaded or jarred or wishing everything was different

there's no wrong way to be
there are just stories and stories and stories

and the inside scaffolding of your soul
that's resting quietly, waiting
for you to notice
that no matter how you be
she's got room for it
reasonlessly

and a knowing
radically
that no being
lasts forever

woosh

In favor of a world where offering our simple selves is more than enough; everything

What I have to Offer from Eliot Rausch on Vimeo.

We're starving. All of us. And we're killing each other. And we're hating each other. And we're calling each other liars and evil because it's all become marketing and we want to win because we're lonely and empty and scared.

We're led to believe winning will change all that.

We are not the passive audience for this messed up power play.

We can say... that we are thinking, really thinking about who we are, and that we can express ourselves, and with this, other people won't feel so alone.

I wanna tell you that I have a hope that there's another way to be in this world. And that I believe with courage and vulnerability and honesty, that the stuff we put into the world can serve a better purpose.

Sometimes to birth a whole new you...

...you've got to rip apart the old.

Deactivated my social media sites. Rebuilding my website. Writing in solitude daily.

Sending out heaps of trust that from the wide open spaces, what's necessary and true does emerge... and for each of us, it's a different shade of beauty, a different hue of wonder.

Explore.

I dare ya.

for this life I need a squirrel

I Remember Galileo by Gerald Stern

Originally published in The Red Coal (1981)

I remember Galileo describing the mind
as a piece of paper blown around by the wind,
and I loved the sight of it sticking to a tree
or jumping into the back seat of a car,
and for years I watched paper leap through my cities;
but yesterday I saw the mind was a squirrel caught crossing
Route 80 between the wheels of a giant truck,
dancing back and forth like a thin leaf,
or a frightened string, for only two seconds living
on the white concrete before he got away,
his life shortened by all that terror, his head
jerking, his yellow teeth ground down to dust.

It was the speed of the squirrel and his lowness to the ground,
his great purpose and the alertness of his dancing,
that showed me the difference between him and paper.
Paper will do in theory, when there is time
to sit back in a metal chair and study shadows;
but for this life I need a squirrel,
his clawed feet spread, his whole soul quivering,
the hot wind rushing through his hair,
the loud noise shaking him from head to tail.
   O philosophical mind, O mind of paper, I need a squirrel
finishing his wild dash across the highway,
rushing up his green ungoverned hillside.

End-of-the-Year MadLove: A Call to Artists and Rebels

Crazy sages, 

I've got some slots open in my coaching schedule, and I'd love it if these next few months especially, I could rock out with artists, rebels and visionaries. YES! 

The back story is I'll be doing NANOMO (or whatever it's called when everyone sits down and writes a novel in a month), and energetically, it would rock my world to be working with clients who are on a similar path. So...

I'm hot to work with people who are:

• Coming into their artist selves, full force
• Ready to express themselves like never before
• Want their expression to be a whole-life experience, not just showing up on the page, canvas or stage
• Hungry for breath-taking challenges
• Itching to go over the top
• Timidity and fear, be damned

**Note: You do NOT have to be a full-time artist-ish to sign on. You just have to desire amping your connection to your inner-expression. Boom.

I'll be channeling my wacky painting professor with the wispy white hair and icy blue eyes who walked in on the first day of class wearing a fur coat and clanking cowboy boots, and said:

"Do not place your canvas upon the easel to lay your paint strokes down unless you wildly believe that what you're about to create will set the world on fire."

Hint: YOUR world is the first world to lite up, brilliant being. Get yourself giddy as fuck: that's what we're going for. Let the magic pour from there.

Cost:

One month of coaching (three 45 minute sessions, plus a half-hour Spark Sesh on da house) is $180 if you pay upfront, or $210 if you pay per session. 

Three months (eight 45 minute sessions, one 2 hour Discovery Session, and a half-hour Spark Sesh on da house) is $600 if you pay upfront, or $700 if you pay per session.

More on working with me right here, and some loving testimonies clients have offered up right here. Shoot me a line at rachmadlove@gmail.com if you're interested, and we'll get this party started! 

~~~~~~

Also! A blog-ouncement:

I'll be hibernating my writing, leaving this baby bare of words for most of the month. Whatever it takes to protect the sanctity of the book, right? 

love love love!

Holllaaa,

rach-o-ween ;)

Begin, fool. We're all stumbling, anyway.

here we have it, lovelies: a foolish face.

After graduating from college, I was working for Jen Lemen in her little art studio on the third floor of her house, doing fruitless things like trying to get the scanner to work. The reality is, Jen was exponentially generous with her mentorship, and often, I'd leave her house a bit rattled--her capacity to shoot truth like a tin can atop a tree stump, a bit uncanny.

The thing with you, Rach, is you're terrified to look foolish. She said it ever-so nonchalantly one summer afternoon with the windows open and the birds singing careless and free.

FUCK. Don't you love/hate it when someone nails you right on the head?

Here I am, five years later, still stomaching that reality. As I practice the art of stepping all the way into myself, I can feel the precarious edge of foolishness lurking, waiting for my missteps, haunting me with the threat of falling into some deep abyss of shame.

I can feel how unavoidable foolishness is, if I'm to truly pronounce myself, sound myself out one syllable at a time. It's clear that the art of becoming is much like the English language--with certain things that make no sense, follow no patterns, and are just plain old stupid. And still, we must learn them by heart. We must pronounce them wrong, over and over and over again. We must continue to read aloud, anyway. In front of the whole class. Everyone listening as we stumble on words like unique, Illinois, amateur.

So the question remains: Am I willing to lean into the challenge? To try my hand at something that actually scares me? To publicly show you, This is really where I am. Right here, right now, this is my damn best work. Foolish mispronunciations, and all.

And I notice, the best way to write this book might be to pretend that no one will ever read it--no one's actually listening as I sound myself out, one stumbling ah-tem-pt at a time. This is for me. My growth. My learning.

And, you see, that's the whole real challenge for most of us, anyway--to hold (or let go) and evaluate (or not evaluate) our experiences for ourselves. To set our own standards, be our own judges, sing our own praises, feel satisfaction intrinsically.

To cross our own mountains--because we must--for ourselves.

To live for ourselves. To become full and round and every bit as devilish as delightful. To love all our wild, untamed parts, and all the ways we worry. To be foolish enough to begin, not knowing where this damn road will lead, or what might happen along that long stretch of nothing, somewhere between mountain and sea.

Because it's there, in those stretches when you run out of gas or lose the tire like a tumbleweed spinning away without reason, that you grin or sob with liveliness. It's at the edges where you discover indigo, burnt sienna, colors beyond Crayola packaging. Where you find the fullness of yourself. Where you learn to love the fool that brought you there.

So with that, here's a short list of things that I'm letting myself embrace, despite the ways I wobble:

1. Skateboarding. (I suck and I'm terrified, but I love it so much I'm doing it anyway).
2. Dating woman. (I've always been queer, but when you've been married to a dude for 7.5 years, dating women raises all your foolish/clueless flags... as if dating, in general, didn't already).
3. Writing a book. (Okay--I've been writing since I was seven. But a book? About my fucking life? Eeeep!).
4. Going on dates alone. (It actually feels scary to take myself to the movies, a concert, a club. But I'm doing it. Because, hell, I know how to treat a lady).
5. Paying all my bills and completely supporting myself financially. (Brian was the... uh... breadwinner. I tremble every time I open my bank statement. It's a work in progress, but, damn it, I'm committed).
6. Dying my hair. (This doesn't sound like a big deal, but if/when I actually dye my hair red/orange, IT COULD LOOK TERRIBLE AND I COULD BE EMBARRASSED THAT I WAS A FOOL TO DO IT).

And I'm willing to do these things--to take myself to these ledges--to find out who I really am in my discomfort and my power. Because, what the fuck? What else am I gonna do? Stay here? Awkward and afraid? Half-knowing and half-trembling, waiting for someone to scoop me up and save me from myself? Hell no. I may be afraid of myself, but that right there, is a fear I'm willing to face. The most important one of all.

~~~~~

What about you, dear soul? If you were willing to sound yourself out slowly, one syllable at a time, what might you pronounce? What dares might you dream to begin, foolishness be damned, knowing that we all wobble, we all fall, and everyone gets as many chances as they give themselves?

ciao, darling.

half moon shining, 

mo-ped winding,

you dance in the streets like you're free.

and i, a dreamer,

top-down, ever-eager,

can't ever hide the truth in me.

i'll miss you.

more than

you or i

dare say.

~~~~~~

standing, shedding,
helpless as a tree.

i don't fear
getting close.

i don't pretend
letting go.

i let you touch me.

i feel every
slowly, slowly.

every biting
thrust.

every smack
and suck.

i trust
all the way past

goodbye. 

At Least You Get to be an Artist

In 10 days I'll be sweating my way up and down stairs, carrying lofty furniture and a few backpacks full of clothes. I've moved a ton in the past decade. It's the nature of the times. But this feels different. Like I'm moving into myself. And somehow, strangely enough, it feels like the most scary of territories. What are my real limits? Where are my true edges? Who am I when left to my own devices? 

I'm a boarder-free kinda gal, so it's easy to scare the shit out of myself. Few things feel off-limits, bad or dangerous. (Sorry, Ma. I know I drive you up the wall). 

Which brings me to being an artist: 

In August, I challenged myself to writing a poem a day. What resulted was a total undressing. A deluge of rhythms and lines. A river I could not dam up--not now, not anymore. I dug up ten thousand buried moments--past, present, future. I let what was just below the surface bubble to the top, boil over, burn. And burn, indeed, I did. All the way to the bone.

Life has been feeling as unruly as a dancing fire. Where will the next flame wisp? It's impossible to know. There is no pattern to fire. It's free. It's transitional.

And I hate to say it, like it may be true, but perhaps what I'm really moving into is a life that is unprotected, fully lived, felt to the edges with nothing left to do but write about it. Immortalize it. Somehow find its beauty.

It's like my pond mutated into an ocean in a moments time, but my body stayed the same size. I'm strong, a good swimmer, but where am I going? To the edge? Must I always seek the edge? Or could I just let myself float where I am for a while, enjoying the sun on my face, not worrying about where I am? Letting the fire die in the water, if only for a day.

And then there's gratitude. Some of my very closest friends are in immense grief right now, coping with things no one ever imagines will actually happen to them. I can feel empathy swelling in me, as I sit face-forward with their cracked open lives. I know how it feels to be tied to the bed, fucked, trying to find any morsel of pleasure possible, in such harrowing circumstances. 

And I think maybe this is what art is for: framing the unimaginable truth, honoring the tiniest reflections, making sense out of the insane. Staying awake when you just want to sleep, numb, smoke cigarrettes to hell and back.

Because there is nothing sturdy about living. Even when we build stone castles as homes, the troops eventually march in. The catapults fire. It all burns. And this moment is as good as it gets for now. With everything twirling and spiraling in a craze, with no guarantees for the story you'd like to call your own--at least you still get this: to be an artist. 

You get to move into yourself, and travel to the edges you never knew lived inside of you. You get to appreciate the backroads at sunset and curse the traffic jams of your soul. You get to have it all in there, in that crazy self of yours. Again and again, living in paradox--powerless and powerful beyond belief--you get to dance the artists' dance, sweating, pounding, occasionally resting off-beat. You get to make something, as your final shout at life. 

This is the life of an artist. Dam-free. Flowing. Teetering between float and swim. It all pours out, it all comes in. And you are vulnerable. The occasional sink is bound to creep in. But alive, you are. You are living. And while sometimes it's delayed, put off for those late nights clicking away at the keyboard, you are feeling, deeply. You are asked, really, one thing only: to dive all the way in. To get drenched. To show us. Or if not us, yourself.

Because it's really about you, isn't it? Becoming. Becoming the person who's needed in order to live the life that's arrived. Inventing. Surrendering. Playing. Trying shit on until something actually fits your new, unfamiliar size and shape.

There's a lot that I'm showing myself, as a beginning. Writing in private. Experimenting like a 13 year old whose trying to find her sense of style. This book is terrifying me. It's the most fun I've had since my senior year of college when I'd paint for 8 hours straight, leaving the studio as the sun was coming up, forgetting where I was or what was next on my agenda. It's forcing me to stay awake, in a time when I'd be oh-so-tempted to just fall away, asleep, crashed inside an aimless car of fear.

Art. It's saving me. It's making me brave.

And you? What's your artist up to these days? Has she saved you lately? Is she seeking to come out and make something beautiful from your crazy, magical life? Are you letting her?? Do tell. I'd love to hear.

crazy raw + glad,

rach

Danger Danger Danger

source: Keri Smith

Toss-Up Instructions for When the Rug Gets Pulled Out from Under You

Heads:

Be with it.
Alllll of it.
Like a full-body experience. 

Let yourself be fed and watered and weeded by other loving hands.
Where are they? You might ask.
Waiting for your invitation,
Your open-hearted quiet request:
Any way you can make me dinner this week?
Rub lotion on my hands or feet?
Take me to that silly movie?

Talk less. And even less.
And even less.
(And even less).
Repeat.

Gather the goods for a divine and righteous cry:
A journal to jot down all you desire.
A mix that reminds you of all you miss.
The letter or picture that leaves the greatest pang.
The shirt, the present, the essence of the missing presence.

Indulge in your tears for longer than you'd like.

Watch your body release
the pent up disease
of denial.

Repeat. 
Daily. 
For longer than you think you need.

Graze, bare feet in the grass.

Gaze, a soft glance out the window.
Gather the moment.
Name what you see in soft whispers to yourself...
Tiny slivers of shingle shadows and a bird feeder that's one-third full.
Undone electrical wires dangling from Mark & Meryl's roof.
A frenzying fly, wishing the window weren't so.
Weeds breaking through the blacktop in crooked rows.

Go to bed by 10pm. Really. No excuses.
Wake up when your body is ready.
Really. No excuses.

And if you feel a nap coming on, by all means, let it.

Step. Step. Step. Step.
Tiny.
One
at
a
time.


Tails:

Ask yourself:
What gives me energy and power these days?
What drains me like a wide open sink?
Make your lists.

Feed your power.
Fuck the rest.

You need to, you do.
Because even when the rug gets pulled out from under you,
You still have yourself, if nothing else... if nothing else.

Find your strength.
Live in it.
Not for the sake of appearance.
(It can look tired.
It can look tasseled).
But because you still have it.
And there are times... times like these
for proving it.

cosmic 25. i'm writing a book.

welcoming my 25th year on Earth like love-happy fools

i'm writing a book because i'm getting no younger.
i'm writing a book that howls like hunger,
and seeps like honey
into a steam of memories--
this past year's spicy chai.

i'm writing a book with frozen fingers.
i'm writing a book instead of eating dinner.
i'm writing a book from scratch--
hilltops, laptops, blacktops, no cash.

i'm writing a book like a tiger: rip, rip, roar.
i'm writing a book like a player: shhhh... not too much.
i'm writing a book like nina simone: moan, moan, moan.
i'm writing a book like a mother: suck 'em dry, baby.

i'm writing a book because i'm not having sex.
i'm writing a book about a fuck-ton of sex.
i'm writing a book with the hope that we have sex.
then at worst, i could write another book about it.

i'm writing a book like a puzzle--
pieces spread on sandy beach house tiles
and nothing else to do 
but fall back in love with quiet.

i'm writing a book with the top down in the winter.
i'm writing a book--tweezing it out like a splinter.
i'm writing a book and i'm dying my hair red.
strength, fire, destruction. enough said.

i'm writing a book because the stars are falling,
the words are hollering,
and i'm hungry for something
that terrifies me.
like you.

How the light gets in: 2 years, in retrospect

"don't dwell on what has passed away
or what is yet to be"

He sings with almost eery depth, that Leonard. The notes breathe into the blue blood cells of my body's ocean. My mind floats over all that's passed in the past 2 years. I don't heed advice very well.

This head has rested in 300 spots. Beds, basements, backyards, barn yards. Tree houses, tents, teepees. Tall grasses along Interstates in the middle of fucking nowhere. Other peoples houses, garages, guest rooms. Jesus Christ. I'm so tired of vagabonding, I told a friend. Feels like a long road home to nowhere? he asked. --Exactly. I want my own bed set. Sheets. Shit on the walls that says something about who I am.

This body split from the body it rested next to for 7 and a half years. After 7 and a half months of living on bicycles together, crazy shit happens. For better and for worse.

I'm so glad I can still call you, I said. It's the way family should be, he said. I blow loose cry-like snot into a rough paper towel. I'm sorry I'm always such a mess when I call. --It's okay, Rach. You're still my best friend. We don't have to give that up.

I've tried on other bodies to fill the void in my bed, my heart, my Friday nights. Some thought they fit me, but I disagreed. Some felt like a perfect match to me, but were too expensive, or already taken by the idea of someone else. Some were impossible for reasons that make you want to hate The Way It Is. I'm learning to go naked. It's uncomfortable, healthy. Strengthening. And when I'm too tired to be so strong, I'm learning to go home and ask my mother to read to me like a child.

Certain things cannot be taken from us. Like love, creativity, forgiveness. We can take them from ourselves, though. I have. Many times. Too many, perhaps, over the past two years, past twenty five. I'm learning to be more generous with myself. It's an art form: suffering less.

"ring the bells that still can ring
forget your perfect offering"

It's not the kind of thing I like to do: offer less-than-perfect. I think in truth, I'm a closet perfectionist. But when you're half-homeless, half-jobless, partner-less for the first time as an adult, and anything but energized, you learn the value of Fuck it. Oh well. This is the best I can do right now.

You forgive me, right? You never wanted anything else, did you?

For a few months I worked at a coffee shop in the city. I was broke, community-less and desperate. In coffee shops, the state of humanity is crystal clear. Why is everyone so fucking depressed? I'd wonder. Then my world got pulled out from under me.

I stood teary-eyed, toasting scones for customers, pouring black coffee into white mugs. Love swelling my heart, I saw for the first time, truly, how deeply most people suffer. I began loving everyone more. Leaning on strangers shoulders. Hugging. Asking nothing much of anyone.

"there is a crack, a crack in everything
that's how the light gets in"

We couldn't believe it'd really been two years when we did the math on our phone-tag saga. We told each other the abridged versions of our lives. The parallels were palatable. Epic cross-country journeys for love. Exquisite losses. Little money. Lots of recovery.

--How do I seem now? I asked. Different, right?
Like Joni Mitchell's Blue album, he said. Her earlier stuff was okay, but something changed in her when she did Ladies of the Canyon and Blue. 
--She lost a lot, I said.
She got humble, he said.
--I feel weathered, and really really glad. 
It's beautiful, Rach. Growing up looks good on you.

"every heart, every heart
to love will come
but like a refugee" 

I embarrassed myself the other night. Totally lost my shit. Like, side-walk-fetal-position-while-it's-raining-outside shit losing. It felt excellent. Like breaking something after so much around me had broken. I was breaking my expectations. Curling up in disappointment. Letting those feelings live. Letting them go.

I've been feeling like a quiet wanderer since that night. Like the hurricane is over and I'm trolling the wreckage for small signs of something familiar, but in my heart, I know it's time to look in a new way--not for something, but gently at things, as they are. I'm changed, completely, and nothing will ever look the same. Not this face. Not that house. Not these hands, nor feet. It's all curious now. It's all wild.

Maybe in this shapeless home, I don't need to know the face of God, but I can let the face of everything look at me. And I can feel held by the feeling of seeing.

 

perhaps

perhaps we all want to feel
those big things like
freedom
and love
and ... ? the third big thing?
because we're already them

i mean, come on...
like attracts like
we're just projecting our
desires
for what
we already
are--
duh.

and expectations...
they're like war
you're bound to win,
you're bound to lose

but behind every great
king of discernment
there's a queen
of curiosity
hard at play

i wonder,
i wonder,
when i'll
undress
all the way

belly laugh in the
nudity
of all this
freedom
and love

bras and boots and other things that can't be put away

one day we'll tell stories
about half-clothed kitchen dancing
and spatulas that somehow
snuck into the mix--Slap!

you, wearing my bra
me, your boots
my bubby's velvet chairs
standing ancient on your crooked hardwood floors

I need to make you a set of keys
you say ten thousand times

but the doors are never locked
and when they are,
I lay in the yard
and wait
for you to hear my breathing
dance down the stairs
call me in like a street cat
or a crusty punk
whose only currency is kisses

we can never find the keys, anyway
or the shoes
or the other sock that's hiding behind
the famous white couch
that we could never bare to toss

not even when we moved next door
one box, bag, swaggering pile of crap
at a time

everything is tangled
like necklaces in a drawer
of junk]

my records, your player
your children, my lullabies
my dishes, your sink
your cooking, my hunger

the stories we'll only tell when
the children are grown
and messy
like us

Would you like to feel awake?

close your eyes
or go stare them to the soul
and ask
because they know

what your body wants
what your body wants
what your body wants

the rest is a two step saunter:
Listen.
Act.

what else would you like me to say?
the hardest practices
hardly need words

Eulogy for comfort or the soft, safe feeling of laying in the grass under the sun

She called. I answered with definitive speed. Something important on the line. Leave the table at the bar with your friends. Go to the other side of the patio. Sit facing the wooden fence. Yes? What happened?

After she told me the whole story we ended up deciding the definition of courage: Undressing in plain sight. Not hiding. Truth, unravelling you. Letting it.

The husband gave a gorgeous eulogy. We're all going to go, and none of us know when. So take a moment now to think about your maybe-one-day decade-long dreams. Write your music. You do not know when it will be you.

The oldest of their children was not too young to understand that her mother had gone. The younger two would still need time to grasp their loss in words. Everyone felt like a page of their favorite composition had been ripped out and burned.

The wife was a composer. A teacher. A healer.

Who would play those pages? Know how?

On maternity leave with her third child, she decided that she wanted to be a mother, simply. Nothing more needed. Soon after, her diagnosis. Being a mother in a time like this was anything but simple, he said.

So much is irreplaceable.

I imagine a room full of rib cages creaking open, the glow from their weepy hearts whirling into love with each other. Like falling on the couch at the end of a hellish day. Like dad taking off your cleats and shin-gaurds, sweaty socks, after soccer practice.

We lose our mothers. Everything, eventually.

I wonder what to do in between our losses and the loss of us. When the comfort of comfort feels as far as rain in the desert.

In the morning I walk upstairs after a night of wobbling half-naked in the truth. My memory full of foolish courage, embarrassment, some strange version of love. She woke me with a song read straight from my dreams. Her rib cage creaked open with light. She held me as I sobbed. Her face, like the first breath on the first day of fall.