I am woman hear me roar

I took my life back; I will no longer be a slave to my emotions, and I will not let the actions of another human dictate my self worth anymore. I feel like a powerful strong woman. I did everything I could to cope with the deep unhappiness I was feeling; hypnosis:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=homCjAv0G70

I wrote a letter to the universe:

Dear Universe, please help. I am sad, and confused. I am obsessed with a man who seems to be holding onto me but doesn't seem to want me anymore, and it hurts. Help me come to terms with the loss I feel. Help me accept the relationship for what it is or help me move on. Dear Universe, do you have a plan for me? Is this a door closing to allow another to open? I feel an emptiness inside me. I miss the closeness I once felt with this friend and I am struggling to let go. I have become obsessed with him and crave his affections. It seems my happiness is contingent upon his attention and affections. HELP. I am paranoid, perhaps for good reason: does he have another woman he adores in his life and he himself cannot let go, but knows it is wrong to be with me simultaneously? Please give me a sign. Please show me what must be done. I need to stop feeling this way.

I chanted to the owl asking for guidance and clarity:

I open my heart and soul to the truth.

And ask that my life’s journey be illuminated before me,

I ask for the wisdom to see.

Even in the darkness of life’s challenges.

And the ability to manifest my true path.

I took his advice and wrote down all of the pluses and minuses for staying in this unhappy friendship:

Pluses for staying:

Not having to deal with the loss of losing him right away.

Minuses:

Feeling-

Rejected, paranoid, unappreciated, vulnerable, foolish, and used.

I didn’t turn to the affections of another man to distract me from the pain. I faced the pain head on and looked for the solution. I turned to a female friend for advice and comfort, someone who could relate to my experience. A man could never give me this purge, his motives would not be pure, he would make every effort to seduce me and take advantage of my weakness. Instead I became strong and resilient.

I did whatever it took to battle it out and to conquer my emotions; and it was the first time in my life I have achieved this. I feel like I had a major breakthrough, like anytime my emotions get the better of me again, I will have the tools to cope. I am so grateful for the experience because I can use it for the rest of my life.

It’s a strange feeling to be content, I really don’t remember the last time I felt this way, or if I ever have. And yes I am asking myself if perhaps I am manic, but the feeling isn’t euphoric, more that I feel free of burdens, free from indecision; like I have surrendered to my life and circumstances and that I know I have the power to change.

jigsaw

A jumbled up assortment of pieces 

lay scattered across the pneuma of me

the fragments of you lodged into every area of my being

and each one was as precious as the next 

you plucked a shard from my heart 

and the facets glistened like a crystal 

you reached into my mind and gathered a handful of morsels

then you took out your paintbrush 

and the morsels liquified at your command 

one striking stroke on the canvas
and there was the outline of you

one by one you revealed each piece 

showing me in detail the curves and edges

the hues and tiny details that i had missed 

by not looking at you closely enough

it was hard to let go and move on to the next

but the next fit and made the picture more intense

you handed me the brush

and I recognized it

I gasped... I had been the painter

and I had carefully painted all of you 

A magnificent abstract

cut into odd shapes

and I had the unsurmountable task of

fitting them all together

to make the perfect you

Lucy Vincent

Lucy Vincent was a puritanical lady who lived in the small, idyllic town of Chilmark on Martha’s Vineyard. Lucy was the town librarian; she felt compelled to sensor the town folk literature and laboriously blacked out any words she felt were inappropriate or sexual in nature.

Upon her death Lucy willed a very generous gift to the town: her beach. Lucy Vincent beach lies on the south side of the island, the boulders sit magnificently along the shore like beauty marks against the ocean spray. The cliffs stand tall as a backdrop and curve graciously around the bay.

Some years after inheriting this splendid beach the people of the town decided that Lucy Vincent beach would allow it’s bathers and sun-worshipers to bare all and Lucy Vincent became a nude beach. It isn’t mandatory to remove all of one’s garments on the beach and many people choose to cover up their private parts.

Today I felt the heat of the morning sun on my deck in the woods; the breeze did little to cool my clammy body. I pulled on a bathing suit, wrapped a sarong around my waist, slip my feet into my flip-flops and headed for sand and surf of Lucy Vincent.

The beach was not crowded as it was just two weeks ago. I walked a few hundred yards along the beach to find my piece of solitude and laid my towel down on the soft sand. The ocean beckoned me in; I stood in the water just a few feet deep and felt the waves crash into me. There is a hurricane out to sea bestowing the south side of our island with big, beautiful, frothy white waves. My tanned skin glistened with beads of water shining like crystals in the sun.

I headed back to my towel and lay my revived body in the soft sand to absorb the warmth of the midday sun. My feet firmly placed on the sand, I shuffled my bottom from side to side to scoop out a little hollow, I wanted so much to slide my hand inside the crotch of my bathing suit, the thought made my breasts tingle. My mind took me to you. You stood in front of me looking at me without expectation but with longing. You would not touch me unless I asked you to, but I didn’t want words, I wanted to read your mind. I unbuttoned your shirt slowly. My hand slid inside and gently stroked your bare chest, without removing your shirt I moved the fabric to one side and began kissing your skin. Your eyes close as if the sensation were more enhanced by eliminating one of your senses. My hand slipped down to your waist and pulled on the leather strap of your belt until the prong of metal released from the hole and I quickly unzipped your jeans, allowing them to drop to the ground. With a gentle press to your chest you lean backwards falling softly on the bed behind you, you look at me curiously. I take your hand and place it on my breast inside my dress. Your cock is so hard and I want to take all of it in my mouth. I climb beside you on the bed, pull my hair to one side and lick the tip of your head, the taste of pre-cum makes my own pussy wet and I become aware of how much I am teasing myself, but still I want to be the one to bring the pleasure. My tongue swirls around the rim of your knob lubricating it so that I can pull it between my lips. Your breathing is becoming heavier and my mouth responds to the rhythm, I am sucking you unaware of your hands in my hair.

Suddenly I hear a dog bark. I am jolted back to reality. I look over at my loyal companion; my four-year old dog Bo has spotted a beach walker. “He’s very friendly.” I yell as the nervous looking guy approaches. “Oh hi Robby.” I say laughing, “sorry about my vicious guard dog.” “Are you alone?” He asks, “Yes, pull up a seat.” seeing his beach chair slung over his shoulder. He sits, and we idly chat about the waves and mutual friends for a while. And then BAM!!! “I’m probably going to take my clothes off and go for a naked dip if you don’t mind.” I had forgotten all about Lucy beach-goers and their nakedness and now I was faced with the prospect of seeing a local guy I’ve known for almost twenty years reveal all of himself to me. I was mortified. AWKWARD!!!!! I leap to my feet, I’m sure the expression on my face revealed the shear horror. “I’m about to take a dip and then I have to head home before work.” I.E. PLEASE WAIT. I took a quick self conscious dip, was he watching me? Oh no I am as prudish as Lucy Vincent herself? I spent just enough time in the water to justify my earlier response, gathered my things and left the beach a little earlier than intended.

Careful what you wish for…

My first home that my husband and I purchased while I was pregnant with our twins was a tiny two bedroom one story ranch house. Everyone thought I was crazy when I said I was going to buy a house for under $125,000 that had a separate rental unit. I knew we could not afford the mortgage payments, so the only way we could live was to find a place that would pay for itself. I opened the MV Times and scanned the real estate section, there it was, my little house with an even tinier guesthouse, it had once been a garage. The income from the rental virtually covered the mortgage payments… believe it can be and it can?

Within a few years I felt the walls began drawing in on me. I would lay in the double bed next to my husband and wish that I could physically push the bedroom wall out with my feet. With a lot of thinking and wishing eventually I came up with a plan. I could buy land and build my dream house. Each day at work in my little trendy boutique, when business was slow I would draw endless floor plans. The first design was very ambitious- 6000 sq. ft. of living space; the builder laughed his ass off when I showed him the design and the budget. Eventually I made all of the compromises I was willing to make and managed to design a house that fit the budget.

In the meantime I expanded my business and made some very unwise decisions, the business went bust (a business I had been dreaming of owning for several years). Yet still I got my dream house.

I believed that if I had the perfect home I would be happy. I helped to shingle my house, I painted walls and doors, I spread dirt over the scarred earth, dug up flowers from my husbands grandmothers renowned garden and planted them in my own flowerbeds. And I rejoiced in all of what I had achieved.

A couple of days ago I mowed my lawn. I looked around and realized that my wish had come true, and I felt grateful. I haven't felt that way in a long time. There is a question mark hovering over my head, it’s been there for years, perhaps all of my life. It asks what is my purpose in life and how can I be happy? I continue to wish for things.

On Saturday night after work I sat on the couch playing a little online poker and half watching whatever my husband had tuned into on the TV. Rihana came on and my thoughts immediately turned to an old friend. He liked Rihana and it had made me jealous. I liked how he shared these little things with me, and a felt a wave of sadness wash over me. I missed getting to know him; you know that feeling one gets when they first meet someone and everything they say is like opening the wrapping off a beautiful gift. I wrote a short piece in here about missing him and wishing I could experience that again. A short while later I received an email from him, I messaged him back to see if he was still online. We chatted for a couple of hours and it felt new and exciting again.

So perhaps I’ll take this as an opportunity to make a couple of wishes and also acknowledge that I am grateful for the wishes that have already been granted to me.

My first wish to the universe is: that my daughter does well on her history exam on Friday; she deserves to after so much hard work. And my second wish is that my plan to open hotels for families with disabilities materializes. 

Temper, temper!

My family is incapable of going a whole day without speaking in either a silly voice, an accent or a foreign language. Within the first twenty minutes of my day I broke into an Indian accent, “Oh goodness gracious it’s very, very windy.”

There’s something about certain phrases or words that just sound better with an accent. No one sounds meaner or tougher than a northern English person using the ‘F’ word; spoken in any other accent, it’s just another word.

Growing up in England I was always conscious of how I would be judged or accepted based on how I spoke. I could switch back and forth between a broad northern dialect and pseudo ‘Queens English’. I say pseudo because I found it virtually impossible and felt phony to say “barth” in place of bath, and a duck is duck not a cross between a dack and a dock.

Which dialect I chose depended on whom I was speaking with. If I liked the person I would often adopt their native tongue. If I felt threatened then I would go into my posh voice and sound as pompous as I could be.

A couple of summers ago I had an alteration with a lady at the supermarket. I was dressed in typical island attire, flip-flops, a skirt and a simple T-shirt. My hair was pulled back and my sunglasses were perched on my head. I happened to brush my shopping cart by the lady, grazing her Louis Vuitton purse that was hanging on the side of the cart. (I’m a terrible driver.) I was about to apologize, but before I could open my mouth the woman said to me indignantly “Excuse you.” Immediately I recognized the tone, I sensed her looking down her nose at this specimen who dared to invade her space. She was an older lady, perhaps in her early sixties, her hair and make-up were done, and I can’t imagine how long she must have been at the salon and just how much hairspray had been required to create the do on her head. Her reaction irked me. In the most proper English accent I could muster, I asked rhetorically “Excuse me?” She quickly retorted: “Yes” maintaining her posture and then I let her have it: “How rude?” I continued, “How dare you speak to me in that tone. Why don’t you take your big hair and your, Louis Vuitton back to Connecticut where you belong. You’re not welcome here.” 

I noticed my friend John out of the corner of my eye; he had witnessed the clash and looked a little pale. John is by no means the gentleman’s club type. He rides Harley Davidsons, wears leather, engineer boots and has tattoos; he probably lives at least part of the year in an old van. He is typical of many islanders who grew up here. I wasn’t sure what he made of the scene, he vanished quickly; I assumed he thought this was not a good moment for idle chitchat in the frozen food aisle.

A couple of days later John appeared in my chat window in facebook. He said “Hi.” And all I could muster was an LOL. “You smoked that lady.” “Haha, yeah don’t ever piss me off John.” Still not sure if I should be cringing or laughing. “I have to admit something to you.” He goes onto say. “I had to go hide, you gave me a giant woody.” Enough said.

When I consider what makes a woman sexy or attractive to the opposite sex, a quick temper does not come to mind. However a year later I was lying in bed with my ex-lover; he recalled seeing me let rip on my husband outside my Mother-in-law’s house many years earlier. The house was across the street from a little gas station, my future lover (not mentioning names here) was filling up his car and enjoying the commotion. “You were so hot.” He said. I looked at him incredulously. I remember those fights with James from our early years; the passion was so intense that if we fell out I would either fly off the handle or crumble into an abyss of self-pity. I no longer fight with James in such a way, perhaps I’m mellower now or perhaps I stopped really caring.

A few months after my boyfriend told me he’d seen my fight with James, we got into an argument ourselves; I leapt out of the bed and declared: “I’m done!” He handed me my earring, which I snapped out of his hand and then flung across the room, I saw him smile. I stormed out of the house and headed for the car, he came running after me, grabbed me and said “You are so sexy when you’re angry.”

Perhaps I attract men who like strong women. Or maybe there is something to be said for passion, because without it how can one even gauge what the other person is feeling. I however prefer men who are not feisty. I like the strong silent type, the type of man who seems comfortable in his own skin. If a man brings drama to a situation I think I find it a sign of weakness, and perhaps a feminine trait. In my opinion there is only room enough for one drama queen in any relationship. 

From the heart of a poet and the soul of a dancer...

I wonder why all of the saddest, the most awkward, and the most embarrassing things turn out to be the funniest moments in our lives? I don’t tend to laugh at other peoples tragedies, but I find my own darkest moments hilarious. Often times soon after or even during. Oh, this will make a good story.

My daughter Paige is emotionally the mirror image of myself. I can cringe at her behavior. I feel a knot in my stomach when she feels sad, because I don’t know how to help her; it makes me want to run away, to hide from the reality that she is mentally torturing herself and it’s all in her mind. Just the way my own mind will sometimes take me to that dark place where I can find no comfort.

Yesterday I had to make a tough decision; Claudia had yet again fallen behind in her schoolwork, this has become a recurring theme. An email arrived from her Spanish teacher letting me know she had not handed in several assignments and her grade now reflected this. Spanish has been consistently one of her best subjects and Claudia had been assuring me for weeks that her work was being done and handed in on time. I decided that she would not go to the poetry recital rehearsal. Instead she would stay home and attempt to catch up on missing work. Upon picking her up from school I told her, “I hope you will be very happy at the Blain beauty school.”  Ironically the better punishment would have been to take her considering the events that followed.

Paige, my other daughter who has cerebral palsy had also been awarded the title of ‘Promising Young Poet’ so off we went to the rehearsal. Expecting to feel the pride a mother feels when she triumphantly gazes upon her offspring during events such as these: honor roll ceremonies, school plays, dance recitals and the like. Instead I sat on the lawn in the sun with a hand full of teenagers and the two event organizers, both poets, both cerebral and composed in nature, and I experienced one of my most humiliating moments as a mother. The first poem my daughter read was a lengthy account of what she would be like if she didn’t have cerebral palsy; I could not hold back the tears, my heart was breaking as I listened to her imagination take flight, painting a picture of her life as a dancer, a flirt, and a free spirit.

I am not as simple as I seem

by Paige Taylor

as my bones may turn

to rust

and I am not

what I seem

I am a ballerina…

mentally spinning as I

am physically

taking

flight

and landing

perfect on the

1 2 3 4

of the floor

I have no blood on my knees

I do not fall

I dye my hair

and call my friends

And put on makeup

and gracefull

eventually, I will go to N Y U

and learn the art and craft

with girls’ nights out

and red lipstick

smeared while we were cackling

I have

shoved my tongue down

x amount of boys’ throats

wanting more and more

I have been heartbroken

but not traumatized

and I have broken hearts before.

I have gone

To parties

I have danced

Until I fell over.

I have gone for hikes

I appreciate the outdoors

I eat more than I should

I have cried until dawn

I have painted the most beautiful painting you have ever seen

I have danced in Lady Gaga’s dance troupe.

I have been drawn

I have bought way too many expensive clothes

and maxed out credit cards

I’m decent in math

I don’t have fits

I can actually

Control my emotions

To a normal level… at least considered okay.

(yes I am a drama queen, though)

I’m not striving to be perfect.

(at least when I know I can’t be)

the only times I have ever felt guilty

was when something was actually my fault.

I have done everything that I should.

only, one thing;

it’s a buzzing word beginning with C

cerebral palsy

The next poem took me utterly by surprise; her knowledge of anti-psychotic medications, vivid images of blood, death and suicide sprang from the page and assaulted our ears. Paige realizing during a moment of clarity that this was probably not appropriate material for such an event burst into tears. The teens sat with their heads bowed, in awkward reverie. I was mortified. I wanted desperately to lighten the mood, joking “perhaps we could all have a little group therapy now.” No one laughed. The idea crossed my mind, that perhaps these softly spoken gentle folk believed that my husband and I maybe a couple of pill-popping crazy people.  “Who was this about Paige, Amy Weinhaus?”

Paige eventually found her composure she told me that the poem was about her friend from her freshman year, who had broken her heart by dumping her. The friend had gone through some traumatic times and had shared her tales of woe with Paige before then telling her to leave her alone; leaving Paige confused and heartbroken (a feeling I know too well).

I chatted with my friend later that evening in facebook, retelling the event; somehow at that moment I found the humor, I cried with laughter as I told the tale, she too got why it was funny and tragic. It’s nice to feel understood.

This week I have cried often for my firstborn. I prayed to the universe to please bring her a little joy.

I am sitting here writing this after a triumphant day; the rehearsal two days ago feels more like a lifetime ago. I landed my dream job today, but the icing on the cake was watching Paige confidently perform her poem; and I say perform, because she drove her story home, with passion and humor. There were tears and laughter from so many in the audience and at the end she got the standing ovation she deserved. My little girl got her moment in the spotlight, she felt normal and she made me so very proud.

Ode to Cookers

Bite into this carrot, it has been roasting in the oven for an hour,

Its flavor has intensified, the sugars turned to a caramel glaze.

I am in carrot heaven.

Savor this beef; it will melt on your tongue, so tender.

The red wine has melded with the garlic and the herbs,

It is a rustic sauce of perfection.

Sink your teeth into the earthy skin of this baked potato

Allow your self the pleasure of devouring the fluffy white flesh

With the melted butter, and fill your soul with comfort.

Smell the warm bread and delight in every bite,

It took the time to rise for you and it’s grand finale 

Upon leaving the oven deserves a standing ovation.

Have you ever tasted a peach when it has been grilled?

It’s warm flesh melting the ice cream below,

It’s partner in crime; a raspberry sauce once sour,

Is now sweet as nectar from being swirled around a pot over fire.

Fire is older than the blender; heat it up, cook it, roast it, grill it,

And enjoy it.