I am a child of the universe

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Grief is more clear — life is grey. In grief I was closer to him. Closer to the elemental truth of life.

 

I pulled from old programming– on survival. What must i do to survive this moment. I’ve created a circle of numbness. I’ve read every book, hundreds, – to the e point that i have none left. My body feels broken– I hurt my foot and have been limping from bed to couch. My foot the most honest reflection of my soul.

 

I feel broken. At least I can see it.  A gift, I guess.  To recognize the circle of apathy, boredom, disappointment, denial , complacency, faithlessness, that we all surround ourselves in, to feel less, to be less, to cope.

 

It is a gloom a cloud over our house, over my mind, a storm

 

My father stopped speaking to me because I stopped speaking to myself. I have literally, stopped time. the monotony, and magic is huge. The only difference is that my hair looks longer every day.

 

With every love letter i write, i find more truth i must share.

I am  in shock. ?

 

The memory that has followed me, is that of  me years ago. 5 years ago.

 

I would sleep too much, I was uninspired at work, I had just graduated, I would be doing data entry and I thought that if i had to do this for my whole life, the it wouldn’t be worth living. I was just beginning to feel that my thoughts had merit, that my point of view was strong/needed– but it would flair, highs and deep lows.

 

My dad watched over me. HE watched over my sleep. HE would wake me up only if it was getting close to when my mom would come home from work, at five PM. Because he didn’t want her to know that I had slept the whole day. He protected my choices and my pain. I didn’t realize then, but he must have understood that agony of being aware  that life is meant to be more, but feeling unworthy of reaching for it.  he was the guardian of my actions, he always respected them; he never criticized them. If anything he lightly teased, he would make them sound humorous. He would tell me aunt’s that dani is ‘threatening to work’ ‘amenazando’. It was so witty, and so perfect, I was threatening to to live a life that  was tedious, but i never did. I never committed- and he reflected all of his love and encouragement, and faith in me- always. — . Though he did worry.

On the moments I was high and learning from the universe’s experiences. I would smile, a smile as old as time. I smiled with  certainty. I knew that universe loved me, that i was her magic daughter, game changer, coyote, picara, that she moved through me and that i was wise enough to be  grateful , to the eyes in which i saw the world.  And in those moments, I would hope and pray so passionately, that I wouldn’t have to grow old to know happiness. That I could live without regrets. That i could live my life’s purpose and enjoy it.  I think i would sleep– like sleeping beauty, an enchanted sleep, that i felt restored me, held life at bay, to make me strong enough to face life with the values I felt were important, like compassion and empathy.

 

My dad would walk in and out of the house, always showered, with his beautiful cologne, going to meet with his friends, watch a soccer game, talk business. HE would always tell me when he was going and would always announce his return. As if anyone could ever bang through  the living room door and jingle his keys like he did. He’d try to get he dogs to stop barking when the gardener came, so i could sleep, I would inevitably  always wake up, walk out to pee, in my underwear, with him sitting in the light, watching a game, with  the dogs, and would tell em to go sleep in his room, so the noise wouldn’t bother me.  It was if he waited all day just to smile at me and laugh at my face. So he could hear me say, “i lvoe you daddy, gracias”

 

IT was his ritual. He loved that i was home with him, even though i spent so much of it asleep.

 

I get cut up now– because one of the last memories of him at home, and alive, and hopeful, was me coming to sleep by him, that i separated myself from my life’s pain, and joined him in his, his room. and I held him and got him to sleep without vomiting, I rubbed his face, and he woke up and was so happy i Was there.  And it was like we were able to undo years of self-imposed separation. Where I thought i was alone. And he was a young man again, and I was his baby and we took a nap. We undid all our mistakes

 

I was able to watch over him as we both slept, a communion/ a closing circle of what had been.

 

I see my joy and my face smiling smugly, confidently, that i knew the secret to living, that when you pray, pray for the universe to give you what it knows is best, what it plans, pray that you are open to what she will bring, it was my wisdom, i think i was born with it– it had always worked and had lead me so far from those days five years ago when I didn’t think it mattered if i got out of bed at all– it was that ardent prayer that moved me. I remember thinking that i was so blessed, almost untouchable. I remember confidently telling the universe to mold me into what it wanted, that i was strong enough, brave enough to live with a purpose.

 

I see myself now, crying on the couch, having learned the magic of stagnation, and feel like i called in the wind of my own changing, and that the results are a house without one man. that i may not be strong enough, that the sacrifice was too great, that that as not what i wanted.

 

Its a story of blood, and bodies– not of souls, its a story of emotion. of feelings that explain overwhelming wave of loss.

 

I guess- its the story i had to tell.

 

That when i shouted at the universe, that quality mattered more then quantity, and that when i read harry potter, and knew that souls were untouchable  and forever– i didn’t realize that i would be living with the reflection of all of my beliefs so soon., so quickly.

 

I guess you never step into the vision– you make it everyday, with the whittling away of delusion of safety,  and  innocence– life rushes through me now, leaving me with my choices and the question: what will i make of this life I’ve created?

Auspiciousness

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There’s no more auspicious space, like hospital space, like a hospital room,  to begin  healing.  You can’t heal whats never been given life, or a skin to make its own.

They say that if you don’t speak, you loose the right. They say that if you turn away from the greatness of your destiny, destiny finds someone else– it starts giving you less, less magic to work with. It starts calibrating the gifts you receive to the fears you turn from and the truths you are willing to face.

I’m hoping for miracles– I’m hoping for health and healing in this hospital room. Can I be a conduit for miracles– can writing make way for miracles?

I’m sitting in a hospital room– waiting for news– a prognosis. It was this line in the sand, that as my father’s illness progressed, was where I put a flag– I told myself that I’d have learned to live my life before we reached this place. That I would stop running from my fears of being visible of stepping into the sun. I told myself that before I found out about the ‘time he has left’ I’d give all I have to give to this life. I’m writing because I’ve always wanted to voice my soul to others. I’m writing this now because of a promise to myself and to life, a sacrifice to the gods of mercy and miracles– because my dad just reached out his hand to me– because he loves me,  because being in a hospital bed ‘isn’t life’, because life is precious and I want to try to hold it and speak about it– because i want to write my life’s story, while I still can learn from it- where it can be layered with more love and more stories– so it can live and breath beyond us all.

My miracle is set, the path has materialized– to live every day, with joy and love. No more angustia. No more fears, as uncertainty crawls to certainty– everything changes.

Lol- first entry of Meow’s personal diary and thoughts on what it means to be alive.

 

we welcome

dad

my father had a way of coming home.

as i closed my eyes, preparing to sleep, my subconscious  was triggered

i heard a noise in the house– the noise the house makes when it exhales at night when temperature changes, energy moves, when doors are open and closed. on this exhale

i thought/remembered the times i would be asleep and

he would come home.

He had a way of coming home, fluid, harmonious–

there would be tension a hush, a small jingle of keys– he always had the right one in his hand– except for when the porch light was off then you’d hear more jingles, and you’d feel his disdain for the lack of welcome

but usually, most nights he was welcome-

he would push the big door open, opening up the house, his heart to home, he’d bring in with him joy, in one fluid push in.

he’d set his keys down.

if the dogs got out of my bed– and MEL always did get out of bed to say hi to dad,  the dogs never barked at my dad–

and he’d say, “hey guys” in his beautiful way, peruvian english. or “hola mi mel”

and then we would come out, generally, always, we knew to give him a hug and a kiss the tithe, the reward for making it home safe.

He did night shifts , as a parking attendant– valet.

he’d smell like the night, fresh and cologne, he always smelled good– his check was always shaved perfectly smooth and  thick, smooth no blemishes and warmth,

I’d raise up just a little give him a kiss and get a hug

I remember one night when I was 15 or about there– and we were about to go to bed and knew that he’d be home after we slept. But the phone rang. And I KNEW it was daddy. I knew I had to get the phone. It was and he had been mugged/his wallet had been stolen and… we just knew. we held the light for him, he shined for us when he came home.  He was safe here. we picked up our phones. and always knew– knew when it was daddy. knew when daddy needed us.

I did that for so many years, greet him, kiss him, welcome him home.

Sometimes at night he’d bring home food that he had bought from the restaurants he was valeting at– i sometimes wondered/ think that it was his way of drawing a line in the sand, to tell himself and to maybe show others, but probably more for himself– that he could afford to eat at the restaurant he was doing valet for, that this fjob was not all that he was or had been or would be.

Sometimes– he would say, “in spanish”  “I ‘m not really even sure what i ordered– i just pointed– but (he’d make a look of mild surprise ) hey, its good” (at this point in the story he’d make a face at you and laugh at himself for his performance for his need to perform cool suave man who orders food and smile and laugh at himself when he ordered terribly. )

and then he’d give it to us his porkers– his kids who would come and eat and take all of his food all the time.

he never, so un frequently defended any of his things–

the best meat from the bbq he’d hide for us in the microwave

his ceviche he’d put bowls away fro us

in a nice state of balance– we constantly hid food from him.

He’d say, “dani, what are you eating?” ( hoping I would offer him a bite) and i’d say “bread” and then run to my room, smashing the food into my mouth thinking he’d demand a bite and not wanting to have any to share..

sometimes i’d make him food, sometimes i’d give him some of mine, and sometimes i’d run to my room.

as the house exhaled tonight– i heard my dad push in and remembered our beautiful life.

now the house exhales and inhales and its a new life. the pulse is faint. but there. it knows less joy these days– but it hasn’t forgotten.

the porch light is off

and is always off these days– but we, all of our light remains lit, waiting to welcome the joy

i dance with angels

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I think that it may be that all of my thoughts are threads to be followed, and if done, they are connected to the foundation of all things, of the universe, of eternal beauty, of hallowed dignity and creative possibility.

there’s been my silence, where sentences form, crossroads, choices. Will you find yourself with this thought? Will you express the self with these words? so many of them passed through my mind, you get a moment a flash of what lies at the bottom of the thread and it spreads warmth as the possibility collapses and choices are made. As I let them dissipate I wonder which words will lead me back. which words will i write down and share.

Who am i now, what story do i have to tell, when i find myself crying and driving my father makes sure to ask me, who am i crying for, and why am i crying. He wants to make sure I know. That it’s clear. That some days/most days i cry/have cried for myself, for the security/illusion gone, for my life unraveled, out of sorts, off the path, of loneliness, the zoning in on the clarity that I must love myself, that I create my happiness, that there is no beautiful, jovial small god to distract me. Lately, I cry more because I miss him.

I remember that my dad loved baguettes, toasted, with  slab of butter. I remember this when i burn my toast and i see his energy/memory come and take that piece because that was his favorite. As i jerk my bread out because it’s stuck, i remember that he too couldn’t seem to position bread so it would come out,

I remember that when he was upset, he’d say “que es eso” what is this, this thing that you are doing, what is it, what is it that you are doing because i don’t recognize it or claim it.

Lately as I’ve come to own my grief and acknowledge the tears of fear and separate from him, he’s been gifting me with memories, memories that almost make it okay.

I can hear him say, I’m proud about you. I hear him say that tonight. God he loved me, thought i was the wind of the world, the incarnate fairy, mother teresa, he loved watching me carve my own place in the world, he loved seeing the miracle of that path, when kindness truned into untouchable conviction, when my strength took root and i was able to sway in the dance of life.

I went to my healing movement, body and brain, dance, stretch class today.

HE speaks to me really loudly when im there. i think its because he knows that its when im at my best.

he told me that id have a long, long life without him, so get strong now. ( but dont worry cuz we’ll party on the flip side)

Part of the meditation is to raise your hands over your head and connect to the energy of all things, to feel it. today i opened my palms and today he grabbed my hands.

he told me ” tengo tus manos. siempre tendre tus manos”

“i have your hands. I’ll always have your hands”

i heard it so clearly in my mind, that it made me cry. and then i put my hands to my eyes and he said.

“tienes mi amor en tus ojos” ‘you have my love in your eyes’

i realized taht today would be the day i take a photo of myself, that i take stock of where ive been, taht i would write his words, because finally, in a way, they are mine.

i saw myself, on a mule, chasing windmills, with some crazy sidekick named poncho (read jorge) and that there was this setting sun behind me, but maybe, more then maybe, i was coming into focus, coming closer, that there on that horizon, i was becoming my own hero, quixotic but never abandoned, making my own way to the saving of my own self.

more then anything, he’s proud about that.

is that the bottom of my thread- maybe. maybe not, i suspect that he’s at the end of all my threads- unconditional love, grabbing my hand, writing my stories.

th

There

arizona’s kindness

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i only follow my thread, i trace it out of state, through people, i see it in the stars, but through it all, it is only my thread

it is laid out in front of me,

i ask why, who? where, sleuthing to see the smallest, ephemeral tracks. i feel my gut, feel my face, trust that i am good, my good intentions, will see me through the search.

i think i must have made a web, once, in a place before time, in a dream of my best self, i must have made a web, and now i follow that thread.
there’s no place I go, that isn’t part of this pattern, that isn’t my own soul singing, that isn’t bigger, and better then my thoughts, this is the web of my first being, of my only self.
I had a soccer jersey, in high school, it was only for the goalie, it was red and black and had a web on it, there too, i lived in the net– a spider.
sometimes i see the thread in my hands, i see myself pulling myself forward holding on to this beautiful, shimmering, white, thread of light and creation, i see it in my hands and i glory in it, bathe in it like water for those moments are precious and far between– when i’m there,i wonder why i ever felt lost before, i exclaim, ‘look my past, of course, i’m write where i’m supposed to be, its mine, i have it, i exist’
i blink, cry, breathe, and it’s gone, and i’m born again, wondering, wandering, hopeful, blind, on the path again, alone, looking for signs , looking for the road forward,
sometimes i take naps on the road– i don’t get off and i don’t leave the path, but i’ve spent weeks on the road, crying, contemplating resting here forever, imagining, a place where i’ll stop and be happy.
i get up always, because after trying, i know i can’t/won’t disappear into the path, that life moves on and pushes me invariably up and forward
i want to talk about this last week, this last week, i was living in a place where the illuminated thread lay in my hands, it glowed with purpose and strength and conviction, and it held me in it’s embrace for longer then i can remember.. it whispered that , it was always there, had always been wrapped around me, that seeing this thread was knowing you were alive and you mattered, that you existed, that your path connects you to the whole world.
in the moment before last, we moved down paths, that connected the spaces of despair, to opportunity, hope, to stops on the road, where life was given again, rest was taken, to continue onward, migrant trails, to look at the grand hubris /folly of making a wall on a web.
i find bits of myself on those trails, left bits of myself, to hope and encourage others onward

my dance

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hope, hope, hope, hope, hope

“wishing you forever” “fire to my ice, ice to my fire” “you too, beautiful girl”

Tonight I was dancing and not thinking. Tonight I drove to class listening to Now Volume 3 of hits from the 2000s. I sang and yelled, windows down, that I was bent and I might never get put back together, I sang, oh I love the way you love me. I drove to class like I was driving to the most important moment of my life.

Those moments are the best moments

i do dahn yoga, which is meditation and movement an healing, Traditional Chinese Medicine practitioners, follow similar wisdom in their practice. A basic in both is that You want a cool head, and a warm belly.

my favorite lines, from my favorite books came to me and logged in my head, my mantra, the summation of life. ‘wishing you forever, fire to my ice, ice to my fire’

This class is everything. Music gets turned on and you dance. You just dance, move, create, vibrate, I laugh, and I smile, because I’m alive.

I am epically beautiful and astounding with my eyes closed, my head up, my ass out, i channel energy from the beginning of time, to a time beyond time. energy, your energy as you feel how it connects to the energy around you is exhilarating.

I want to tell a story about the profoundness of our own bodies, of our own life.

In my life I’ve struggled with my perception of my body, its beauty, as I dance and move- certainties land in my mind in pictures, and just knowing.

I dance and know that this dancing is a part of me, and when I’m most beautiful. my mind is kind and tells me that this girl, here will find someone to dance with, with abandon. it tells me this, that it is something I will find when i am fire to my ice, when i am always dancing. when i live the way i dream. the picture book inside my head tells me that this will be everything.

Words, fire to my ice, ice to my fire, raced across my mind, that what i loved about this book was the balance within one, that life is about your experience, your fire, your ice, your entirety, the wholeness you pull together from the fragments of our experience. That we must lose to find, that we must be carved with hurt, to fill it with light.

In class we tap our lower abdomen, sometimes we do crunches, anything to send energy to it, because energy goes where the mind goes, thinking about it would work too, we do this and I realized that fire is there- fire in the belly, that when I have fire in my stomach i am a dancer, alive, and present, that

health should be/will be/is now conceptualized by me as the nurturing of that flame- feed it, make it grow, never let it go out.

I felt born anew, fresh, on the path within my own mind, body, soul. I felt as if i had traveled forever, but knew and loved this path and was glad to be back, i knew it but i was young again and it felt new. i am a new being, created and alive.

I want to share my experiences as I keep the flame alive, as I POUR gasoline on my life , as I dance as it burns, come dance with me, dance in your light, the light of your flame.

ice is there too, don’t forget. ice is my heaven, is the place under the willow tree where dad takes my hand, where my mind wanders, where I see beautiful things,

i think i have it all within me, and I suspect we all do.

beautiful things are upon me, dancing, plotting, smiling in the echos of my creations

the road that never ends

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i was brave once. when i started writing, i stepped into my light. my father’s life on earth was ending, and mine was beginning. I stepped into the light, in the frenzied hope, that the acknowledgment of my greatness, of my own soul, my own purpose, may be enough to save him, save us all.

It began with that realization. Grief has taken me up and down mountains, chasing emotions, fear, insecurity, make me special again, father see me, regrets-i slept too much wasn’t honest enough with myself, chasing emotions through my memories and consistently trying to find the light. spread a story that resonated onto the marrow of our being, that lived and pulsed in a place untouchable.

i think, maybe- i wanted each of us to follow our own darkness, the pauses, the inhales, the walls, and see how the darkness makes room for the light.

these words are my light, my best side. I suspect if i keep creating them, then i will become my best side. i suspect that i’ve been paused at a fork in the road.

that within my stories of his life, well up, unstoppable, sad, happy, great, endless. on the other side of this fork, our my thoughts, my stories, my moments, my love. Ive been paused here, wondering if that path had words, was brave enough, could be brave again. don’t we all have the capacity to be brave for others?  to die on my sword, to save you, to sacrifice for him all things? i wonder whether we can save ourselves.

can i write for me, for my opus, for my dreams, for my greatness, for my soul. what will life look like when i nurture the light.

I’ve paused, dithering, thinking, shuffling– charlie brown, crying, time moves past your pauses- and a reliable source says I’m a little behind, to get a move on, i could die here at that fork, become a mother, aunt, professional, grandmother waiting there.

It is a holy day, a bright day, a beautiful soul was born to give me life, to teach me how to speak of goodness, how to see the humanity in others, how to have self worth, his day today, with his blessing, I declare to the universe the first steps, the happy steady walking on the path of my story.

can i, will you, hear my stories? hold my heart, love me? love yourself?

I feel like the old opa, from my big fat greek wedding, this man could tie everything back to the greeks– this word, that word, to the greeks– i think that i can tie everything back to love, all things. it makes me feel all in touch, untouchable, from this position I speak. i speak of love, the things i love, it is the love that is faith, the love that is my faith, the root of faith is love. my faith in you all, in the ripples of magic dancing on my words, of goodness and laughter louder then my sadness-

it has been the most redeeming and healing power I have ever known, her is to Jorge Florindez, faithful, laughing, loving, storyteller. Here is to the end of his road. Here is to Daniella Florindez, faithful, laughing, loving, storyteller, here is to what she will see, here is to what she will create. Here is to a road that never ends.

the road that never ends

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i was brave once. when i started writing, i stepped into my light. my father’s life on earth was ending, and mine was beginning. I stepped into the light, in the frenzied hope, that the acknowledgment of my greatness, of my own soul, my own purpose, may be enough to save him, save us all.

It began with that realization. Grief has taken me up and down mountains, chasing emotions, fear, insecurity, make me special again, father see me, regrets-i slept too much wasn’t honest enough with myself, chasing emotions through my memories and consistently trying to find the light. spread a story that resonated onto the marrow of our being, that lived and pulsed in a place untouchable.

i think, maybe- i wanted each of us to follow our own darkness, the pauses, the inhales, the walls, and see how the darkness makes room for the light.

these words are my light, my best side. I suspect if i keep creating them, then i will become my best side. i suspect that i’ve been paused at a fork in the road.

that within my stories of his life, well up, unstoppable, sad, happy, great, endless. on the other side of this fork, our my thoughts, my stories, my moments, my love. Ive been paused here, wondering if that path had words, was brave enough, could be brave again. don’t we all have the capacity to be brave for others?  to die on my sword, to save you, to sacrifice for him all things? i wonder whether we can save ourselves.

can i write for me, for my opus, for my dreams, for my greatness, for my soul. what will life look like when i nurture the light.

I’ve paused, dithering, thinking, shuffling– charlie brown, crying, time moves past your pauses- and a reliable source says I’m a little behind, to get a move on, i could die here at that fork, become a mother, aunt, professional, grandmother waiting there.

It is a holy day, a bright day, a beautiful soul was born to give me life, to teach me how to speak of goodness, how to see the humanity in others, how to have self worth, his day today, with his blessing, I declare to the universe the first steps, the happy steady walking on the path of my story.

can i, will you, hear my stories? hold my heart, love me? love yourself?

I feel like the old opa, from my big fat greek wedding, this man could tie everything back to the greeks– this word, that word, to the greeks– i think that i can tie everything back to love, all things. it makes me feel all in touch, untouchable, from this position I speak. i speak of love, the things i love, it is the love that is faith, the love that is my faith, the root of faith is love. my faith in you all, in the ripples of magic dancing on my words, of goodness and laughter louder then my sadness-

it has been the most redeeming and healing power I have ever known, her is to Jorge Florindez, faithful, laughing, loving, storyteller. Here is to the end of his road. Here is to Daniella Florindez, faithful, laughing, loving, storyteller, here is to what she will see, here is to what she will create. Here is to a road that never ends.

tic-toc, como una gota de agua

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tic-toc, como una gota de agua.  His words and stories are mine now, they exist only through my filter– his words flash beautifully in my mind, they make me epic, they make me a hero, they make me above time, infinite. I drive on the 110 into downtown, and its beautiful and dark and cloudy out, i take the turn over the mountain and am in the sky, surrounded by things/words/thoughts that never die. I begin to compose, to find words. Sorrow, like water, fades into all things, permeates into being, becomes the fabric of your make up, a taste on your tongue, an essence unshakeable

Tic-toc, como una gota de agua. tic-toc like one small drop of water, like a rain drop, like the noise the rain made in the jungle, tic-toc, tic-toc, is how water falls. it was one of his more favorite things to say, he would say it and basque in his memories of his jungle kingdom.  In my mind my memory of him saying this is beautiful.

It is the name of a store in yurimaguas, in a time long ago. it is the nickname of his friend, to me it always seemed like the name of a bygone era.

his wit, the wit of his friends, so delighted him. I hear him saying it, performing it, it is what ripples through my mind as I drive.  There were too many people he wasn’t able to say goodbye too. planning out goodbyes, i imagine takes a long time, he would have needed another life, to say goodbye to everyone who would have liked to have heard from him.

I think thats what he’s doing now– i think he’s actually pretty busy. He’s touching people’s souls, visiting their dreams, making parrots fly over our car (IN A HUGE PACK) , he comes gives us hugs, tells us its going to be okay, and though, just saying, FYI, had anyone of us died he would have lite a candle and prayed to us, lol. he’s making himself heard through magic and faith and love. He’s with my when i drive. i know he likes my driving, because i drive like him, he likes driving with me because i go to random places, and take random routes home, that he likes. he’s with us all the time, except for when he’s watching real madrid play in vivo.

As sad as i am to not hear his stories anymore, more sad maybe that Humans wont hear him. . his gift in storytelling was profound, extreme, he had no equals, he was a legend.

in the hospital– my godfather came by to visit– to me, it seemed like they were frenemies- (LOL) not always encouraging, a little too glad to laugh at each others life fumbles, but it had been a friendship older/as old as myself (almost 27). To be fair, i think it was a relationship with this man that reminded him of one he had with his father– a bit austere, a bit serious, this was his friend who was raised in the same school of thought as him, ie, provide for your family or you are a disappointment and don’t get too big, if you need someone to knock you down, i will help.

My dad- knew how to bother, tease, make jokes.

he also knew how to get rid of people and shut them up.

My godfather, had spent most of his visit telling my dad to get better. to not talk about not being better, etc. On another side note, i haven’t heard from my godfather since my father’s passing. my soul is telling me that he is devastated– my father was the child like sprite, that you knew you used to be, that frustrated you, that you protected, that you envied, that you loved as much as you ever loved the child that you were. it was a love beyond words, it was big, and now it is gone and i know he is devastated.

It was time for him to go– and my dad said– “ECO-LAB” like he said it mumbling, just pointed at the hand sanitizer, and really non-nonchalantly. (and at this point if he knew where the punch line of this joke was heading, then omg was he a genius because his delivery was just ON POINT)

It was the name of the hand sanitizer that everyone needed to use before they came to see him.

My godfather said, “Gordo,” He made a confused face– the silence said: I am the one not sick, I am leaving this place, why do i need hand sanitizer, you are sick not me… He said, “pero porque ya me voy?” “but why, I’m leaving” —

and my dad was holding my godfather’s hands, he pulls him in real close (sort of imagine, to stick in the hypothetical knife) and said,

“porque acaba de tocar mis huevos con este mano”-  ” because i just had my balls in thi this hand”  LOLOLOLOLO  (That was me lolling in the corner when i heard his coup de grace)

i think he then flipped him off- something that was so hilariously funny and juvenile and perfect to me, watching witnessing. the final one-up,

nobody, not even my godfather was going to tell my dad what to do and get away with it.

My father’s been gone six months today– and maybe finally the sorrow has spread, maybe sorrow is like water. maybe i can light my candles and laugh-because it was heaven with you here. maybe i can tell all of our stories, maybe i can tell mine. maybe telling your story is where i start.

maybe i love you. maybe i always will. maybe i miss you. maybe i always will. maybe i will fill the dark with light, maybe we aren’t truly apart. maybe i adore you and your smiles and maybe i’m looking forward to our next hug, in my dreams.

 

pity the living harry

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It was the second lunar eclipse– the bookends of october, It was also the first time back to my favorite, thursday night yoga class. In this class we dance, we shake, we choose/define/create our every second. we move our bodies, we become the stars on our own stage, in our mind-
Sometimes I just want to write small things– things that i want to remember– I sometimes see glimpses of the plan– I have this memory. People remind me of stories i once told– but i cant remember them, hardly ever. Story telling is the release, the life, birth, it leaves me and I can’t reclaim it– they are on their own to exist and reverberate in others. It’s no coincidence that i stepped into my voice when I needed a knew way to tell a story, to preserve my memories–  all part of the plan to bring me to this moment.
Dahn yoga, this class, is cathartic. The body sooo caries our hurts, in our bones, flesh,skin do aches fester. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath, that you’re tight, until you exhale.
I dont always have big stories of love and loss- I realize, feel the knowledge in all of my body, hear it from my heart, I realize that I was blessed. Jorge was my first teacher– I was under his guidance for 26 years. The first on my spiritual journey to completion/god/life/love. He was my teacher, i met him on the mountain, and i ran from him, fought with him, called him an asshole, charmed him, looked into his soul, showed him unconditional love, wore scarves, was called madre teresa, i was his macha, brave girl, with strong legs, not afraid of spiders, in the best form of teaching, AS I Acknowledge in this moment, that if he was my teacher– then i most assuredly was his last teacher. a more pleasurable thought ive never had. Thank you eternally young jorge, everyone give a thought to jorge, up in the big blue, and say ‘you were the best, you were loved, grow more dear man, come back complete’ I pray, light the candles in my mind to him, the growth of his soul, of his self- love. You were the best, dear love.  ( I know in heaven he’s super pleased that we’re lighting candles in our mind in his honor)
I move through the class and feel the energy in my palms as I meditate. I put my hands on my body where I wanted healing– I ended up giving myself a hug. clasping myself better then anyone has or can.
Its when i relax my mind, that i get ghosted. I always pull in Jorge, in my mind he speaks English, there is only clear understanding. I worry that I’m making him up, that I dont know what he’d say to me
When i stop thinking, he’s just there, a holy presence that just is.
I hear Dumbledore say, “pity the living Harry’ — that my father needs no words, he tells me to not be afraid, that I don’t have to try to call him to me, to not be afraid of knowing what he’d say, don’t be afraid of remembering me– he wanted me to feel, him, he needed me to know, that he just is. That Jorge has no more words, that he is life, love, and light, and he’s in me, he is me.
He is in a place beyond words, beyond my regrets, ‘pity the living harry’
there are too many types of knowing. i say this so i can remember the difference.I heard him, felt him and knew. knew that it was that moments message. there is no doubt that it was his message to me. it reminds me of faith- can i paint a sincere enough picture of life and death that you follow me on my faith? can you walk your path of life and death, love and loss and follow me on my faith? can i hear a song that heals and know of poetry, of humanity, of heaven.
read all that i write with faith. faith in your heart or no path in front of you.
come, dance and be merry, tomorrow we die.
i enjoyed yoga/myself

 

blessedarethosewhohavenotseenyetbelieve–

if this is to end in fire, then we will all burn together

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so the story goes, that my heart met yours, you touched my soul, its you I adore

I may not always love you,

though some have changed, some forever not for better,

the moon is here and the stars adore you,

i know that you’ll soon be home

this is the end, hold your breath and count to ten,

i can hear them playing,

if this is to end in fire, then we will all burn together

i am an old woman, named after my mother,

I dreamed a dream in time gone by when hope was high and life worth living

But unless it has a dirt road

I want to leave my footprints on the sand of time

you are the love in my life, you are my inspiration

viva por ella, sin saber

 

AND MY HEART BEATS, like the empires of the world unite, we are alive.

 

Its you and me and its plain to see, I do I do, I do I do, I do I do, love you

but long as there are stars above you

there is no one who compares with you

why has my angel gone from me?

Let me be the light that sees you through, take my love with you

we will stand tall and face it all together

keep on dreaming even if it breaks your heart

if we should die tonight, we should all die together,

make me an angel that flies from Montgomery,

I dreamed that love would never die, and that god would be forgiving

I don’t want to go, unless heaven’s got a dirt road

I was here, i lived, i loved, i was here, i did everything i wanted and it was more than i thought it would be

just you and me, simple and free, promise you’ll never leave me

ella mi lado siempre esta, mas que por mi, por ella, yo vivo tambien

I luv ya papi, i luv ya luv ya luv ya papi

words filled my heart, they provided the soundtrack to my story, moments of divine intervention. They would carry me home on a wave of vivid fear, or walk me into a hospital room with a glow and a purpose.

they signal my dad’s presence– there’s a jingle and he’s here. These are my songs with him, not his songs. His songs were happy. dad didn’t really waste to much time talking about life, he lived it, danced it, and then told happy stories about it.

He and i were so similar. we were the story, the light, the laugh, the child’s joy and mischief- we both coped with life, the best way we knew. I gathered words, readying them for future use– i was drawn to love and loss before I knew i’d need those words, or that they’d be my words.

these words, the words of others, padded my ascension, i found comfort in the lives lived of others, in the words that spoke someone’s truth, somewhere

My dad is here with my when i write, when i use my words, tell my story. He adds his godlike goodness to every thought i put into the world, he adds the wings, the music, the direction to all of my thoughts, so that they may land in goodness and create goodness.

I write because no where is comfortable naturally. writing creates my peace. i create my peace, love and loss happen- always. i am infinite and my peace is anchored in some eternal source– soul, maybe.

I dream of him, and wake up and hes not here. A wave of melancholy comes for you. I dream that i go to his couch and bend over, in my cHOONIES and big shirt and give him a hug, I wake up and I sit on his couch. My dogs lick my face– i think it may be a healing tactic they’ve devised to help me. I go to soccer practice, snap at old girls who run through my practice, I come home and spend time with myself, i stretch and tap my toes, and dance with plates- i hear music and i cry for him, i think that when i cry, HE MUST be near, because he didn’t like it, didn’t like for us to cry, it so hurt him, so i think, that when i cry he is here. I decide to write down the words of others and share another piece of the story that is unfolding to me. I sense that when he died– we all died.

a  setting sun,

a blink of the eye,

a closing book,

we are reborn to unfold new.

Fran asks, why I’m crying.

I say, “the uz” (short for usual)

She says, “earthquake in panama?” lol

I’ll be there- let me fill your heart with joy and laughter, togetherness is all I’m after, whenever you need me, I’ll be there.

 

musings on music

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some things are sacred.  protected on to the end of memory.

music is the chariot that takes your soul to heaven.

music is all around us, all you have to do is  listen.

–There were many moments where my father took out from his lexicon, from his encyclopedia brain, quotes and stories that were guaranteed to make us laugh–  one of his favorites was to say, “music was all around us, all you have to do is listen” Years earlier we went and saw August Rush as a family. My dad slept through a lot of it, woke up to weep about the kids in foster care and to hear the key take away of the movie/the end of the movie.

he said it in his unique way– with wisely condensed phrases (because who needs “the” and small words) his delivery simply was perfection, no more, no less.

and always more then how we could ever describe it to others. count yourself blessed if you have lived to see him say it.  He would silence us, (so we could hear the music and because in order to show respect for the music) he would raise his finger, make eye contact with each of us, and say solemnly, that music was all around, all you have to do is listen.

I keep reflecting on the music that guided him away from us. Music that i have to set free to live again, to guide others to heaven, that i have to release from it’s burden/gift/joy. Songs that are locked in a moment, that represent car rides full of life, desperation, fear, happiness, love, angels, heaven, death, music.

I want to share the music that took him beyond and that is all around us.

The 134, the stretch from colorado to hollywood way, is sacred. in it lives the memory, of having my father in the passenger seat, as i took him to and from radiation. I would take him and bring him home, and then say ‘servido”. Which means “you’ve been served”. He always used to say that to us after he would bring us home. It was this one word that represented responsibility. That taking him home was just something I did, no thanks needed, it was my responsibility. He unfailingly gracious, would always thank us for taking him, for caring for him, and I would always  manage to say, that it was my absolute privilege and joy to share that ride with him. I would tell him, that I loved him, that he was still handsome, that he would get better, and that I loved him more today then I ever had before.

Here we would listen to music, or i would listen and he would share in my ritual strength gathering. I listened to music like it could protect me from what was coming. I listened to words that i wanted to wrap around myself.  Hopes that i wanted to wrap around him. songs of loss so i could ground myself in the possibility that this time was tenuous.

When i listened to bonnie raitt– “Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery. Make me a poster of an old rodeo. Just give me one thing that I can hold on to. To believe in this livin’ is just a hard way to go”

Make me an angel, i would sing, would envelop me. i would be free in that moment, to say the words out loud, like a prayer for him and for me.

I wanted him to see me alive, to see me sing to my music, to be free in that way with him as my witness.

As I drove, I felt, and feel that he was my child. That he was my child to save or to loose, but my child to love unconditionally. I would listen to this song and hope that I could weave magic. That I could protect him with my love.

Sleep my friend now I’ll watch o’er you
The moon is here and the stars adore you
Close your eyes and you’ll sleep just fine
Said my guardian angel once upon a time

Chorus
Sho Heen Sho lo, lu la lo, lu la lo
Sho Heen Sho lo, lu la lo, lu la lo

Why has my angel gone from me
The moon I fear and the stars fall on me
I won’t close my eyes ’till the morning light
Oh bring on the sun I cannot rest tonight

Sleep my friend oh I’ll watch o’er you
The moon is here and the stars adore you
Close your eyes and sleep tonight
Oh my blessed angel, here again, goodnight

I wanted to share these songs– because i want them to live again, outside of my grief. I wanted to talk about music because I think my dad lives now, in the instrumental break of strangers in the night- by frank Sinatra.. when i hear the break– i hear my father. It helps that this was one of his favorite songs– as he fell in love like Frank sings. In his perfect fashion, he would only say ‘strangers in the night’ and then start whistling the rest. I wonder if that makes sense to anyone. His essence vibrates on that same frequency. An instrumental full of love, possibility, charm, and eternity.

I wonder where i vibrate, where you find me? In what song do you hear me? He is everywhere, all I have to do is listen.