giving in to my brain's demands

Confession:  I don't always follow my own rules.  Case in point, writing things in my head doesn't get them anywhere else.  (Yes, I did just link an old as fuck post that happened to be my first entry here.)

I've been in a garbage headspace lately.  Super surprising, I know 🙄  But I have been writing.  Thing is, it seems my brain is only interested on writing halfass notes on things I want/need to write, but is fully here for poetry.

As part of my brain's ransom demands I was forced to start a new instagram account (mostly) focusing in this...poem writing endeavor...thing.

Which I promptly ran away from. Again, I know you're just shocked at that behavior.

Honestly, though, fuck it.  If it makes my brain quit yammering at me, maybe it'll also send a little dopamine and serotonin my way.  I could definitely use it.

sign, signs, signing

I'd written it probably 800 times.  The name she gave me and my designation, daughter.  On every form, on every paper.  Verbally to every nurse and doctor, aide and chaplain.

But that last night something was different

One of the handful of things from that whole day that I remember with absolute clarity......sitting there only half listening to the hospice nurse telling me what was in front of me, what I was signing away, and how everything froze for a moment at that line for relationship.  I remember that it hurt, remember thinking this would be the last time.  I wrote the word daughter and it felt like a severing, an ending, the last.

It still does

Even though it wasn't

Since then, I've signed countless mortuary papers, and insurance papers, and bank account closure papers.  Every one of them with the requirement of who and what I am.  And every one has felt false.  I talk to bill collectors skirting the line between polite condolences and annoyance at wanting their money (yeah? me too. so sorry, there is none), and they all need to know who I am.

So do I

I know they question because I hesitate each time.  I can't not.  It doesn't feel right.  There are no grandparents, no parents, there is no one before me anymore.  There is no one to call me daughter but fucking bureaucracy, and they don't count, they never will.

I don't know what else I can say.  I know what people expect.  Even though it feels wrong.

In this instance, I don't know who I am.  I don't know my place in this world.

Can you still be a daughter when there is no one left to claim you?

Weighting

I always cringe when I see people who have staunch determinations of losing weight.  I know this is A Thing in Jan & Feb (all related to that new year's resolution nonsense); this pseudo-health kick that rarely lasts.

Real talk?  I don't like the idea of "getting in shape" either.  We're already shapes.  Maybe you're a square and you'd rather be a rectangle?  I'm pretty sure I'm technically a pear (which is confusing anyway because it's a fruit, not a shape), but I'm here to tell you, I have, and always will, self-identify as a hexagon.

Anyway.

My first thoughts in these scenarios are always "Why losing weight? Why not getting healthier?  Or wanting to become strong?  Why not focusing on self-care?  Or self-love?  Why not work on becoming friends with our bodies instead of resentful enemies?"

I said "always" there, but that's not true.  It's always before today.

Because today my thought was:  Yes.  I would like to lose weight.  The weight of the world's problems.  The weight of my grief and guilt.  The weight of poverty, of stress and fear.  The weight of this depression and anxiety that seem determined to piggyback me into the ground.  The weight of waiting for things I am not certain will ever come to pass.  Those weights?  I would dearly love to lose.

Every year, for at least the last several, by this date I'm done.  I'm just so fucking over the last 364 days that I cannot wait for this shit to be finished.  It's so easy to look back at the year, through the recent magnified lens of holiday angst and see all of the things left fucked up, unfinished, undone, or just not gone right.

The past week social media has been flooded with "fun" posts of the "list one thing you're proud to have accomplished this year" or "what's your happiest memory of 2018" variety.  And every time I scroll across one I sit and think.  And ponder.  And strain.  This year has been so awful, on so many levels, and for so many reasons that I have to truly struggle to think of ANY good things.

So, given my general end of year attitude, right now would normally be the time I am beyond ready to tack a new number onto the date.  The hell with 2018.  Burn it with fire, bury it in a shallow grave, whatever, just get it the fuck away from me.

Only...

Firsts are hard.  So are lasts.  I hate this year.  So much.  There are not words for how much.  But it's the last one I had with my mom.  And that makes me want to cling to this thing that I loathe, like it's a life raft that could, that might, keep my head above water.  Sitting trapped in this too quiet house, feeling the minutes ticking away, I know time does not operate on my whims.  I wish it did.  That it could.  If there was deity who could be swayed, I would beg for a do-over of this year.  Even if the outcome had to be the same.  I'm not ready for it to be 2019.  It's not a first that I want.  But I know, like with so many other painful things, that there is no choice to be made.

I don't know what this is

I've spoken a lot about my grandmother on this (very long neglected) blog.  I think, mainly, because she was so influential to my gardening and crafty sides.  And because, even more than twenty years later, I still miss her all the time.

And while you (assuming there is a you, there might not be, and that's okay, most of this is just words I need to pry out of my head anyway), at this point, might think you have a pretty good idea of who my grandmother was, I don't think you know my mom much at all.  I've only given you snippets of her.  And while I want to clutch every memory of her tightly to me, I also feel the need to share.  To make you, possibly imaginary reader, understand how amazing she was.  And how lost I am right now without her.

She's the one who made me want to write, and she is the editor in my head.  Her obituary was the hardest thing I've ever written.  Because she wasn't there to tell me what she wanted.  Because she wasn't there to be my sounding board.  Because she wasn't there to be my proofreader.  Because she wasn't there.

I was trying to write two different things at once.  My heart and brain were at war.  But I needed to say both.

If you want to see the official copy, that's here.

 This is its other half:

Mother, sister, daughter, friend
Grandma, cousin, aunt, wife
Great grandmother, great aunt
Great

Called mom by more than she raised
Called grandma by more than blood

Both the whirlwind, and the tree that can bend but will not break
It's almost fitting that you left this world during a windstorm

Rest, if you want to.  Raise hell if you don't.   Visit me sometimes if you can.   And if not, I will see you when I see you.   Love you, mom.   Say hi to everybody for me.  Can't wait to hear all of your new stories,  I'll be trying my damndest to acquire more of my own to share.
Until we're together again.

Birthdays, Traditions, and Gifts

When I was little my grandmother had this tradition that I always loved.  Whenever any of us kids had a birthday there would always be a stack of presents wrapped in newspaper comics...that were not for the birthday child.  Long before the idea of goodie bags, she kept drawer stocked with coloring books, crayons, and trinkets specifically so that everyone would have something to unwrap.  So that every child had a reason to feel excited and special.

Today is my birthday.  For various reasons it is generally not ever a day I'm super thrilled with.  And this close to the end of the year, I could easily get bogged down in how hard the last twelve months have been.  But I have to acknowledge the good.  That just in my life, all of this pain, angst, and worry has been tempered with weird quirks of fate, random luck, and the generosity of strangers.  I feel a need to continue the tradition of my grandmothers and give back in whatever little ways I can.

So, today I'd like to give you something.  From now until noon eastern time tomorrow you can get any one of my patterns for free with code "birthdayblahs".  And I hope that in some way, this will brighten your day a bit.

Stress, Side Projects, and Solstices

Today isn't what I expected, but that's not exactly anything unusual.  I'd hoped to share an exciting new recipe, but life and the plague sort of shoved me to the wayside.  And even though things did not work out how I'd planned, I still want to share something new.

For quite some time I've wished for a place to speak about both the complexity and simplicity of modern spirituality and paganism.  Somewhere focused but inclusive, somewhere just a bit less froofroo than the average.

After talking it over for months in a sort of hypothetical sense ("...someone should start something that...") my dear friend Sparrow and I decided to just jump in.  And thus you have the extremely abbreviated origins of Witchery Wednesday.

Please check it out, I hope you can find something to enlighten or entertain.   And on that note, I wish you a Blessed Yule and Happy Hibernal Solstice.

This is Not a Political Post

This is not about candidates or issues.  It's not about changing your mind or swaying your opinion, as the time for that has well and truly come and gone.  This IS a post about storytelling, spirituality, and fear.

My mother was a poll worker for many years.  She did it because it was interesting work, because she genuinely enjoyed talking to all of the different people, and frankly, because we could always use the extra cash.  She would come home tired--they were very long days--but content, and with a fair amount of folksy news and amusing stories to tell.  And even in controversial election years it seemed to be a genuinely enjoyable experience.

That is not this year.

As we have all watched the increasing ugliness, unrest and aggression, I have said that you could not pay me to go near a polling place on election day this year (and as a matter of fact I made a point to cast my vote by absentee ballot a couple of weeks ago).  But over the past week or so it has really hit home what I am saying by my refusal to vote in person.

I have been thinking more and more of the various firehouses, churches, and schools where my mother has worked and where we have cast our ballots.  Thinking about all of the decent people she has worked with, that like her, volunteered to do a job out of patriotism, interest, or need.  These places, these people, will take the brunt of whatever happens today.

And I......I don't have a good feeling about it.  I'm worried, not about the election outcome right now, but the more immediate concern about all of these raised tensions, clashing beliefs, and the powder-keg potential for violence.

I've darkly joked about treating today as though it were some horrible cross between the day after Thanksgiving and New Year's Eve, with all the angst and cons of both days.  I've talked about holing up at home with tea and a couch full of snuggly blankets, watching the fallout through the cold glow of the internet.  But I know many--most--do not have that luxury.

I'm not deluding myself into thinking that I can have any sort of impact on the actual election, this country, or the world in general.  But I can lay out my rocks.  I can light my candles. I can mix my herbs.  And I can try to assuage my own worry by a sending of thoughts, prayers, and hopes.

So, for those poll workers who are doing their jobs, for the kids trying to learn in one of the many polling places, and for all those people who are just trying to go about their day today, I wish for you light and love, peace and protection, and the safety of home no matter where you are.