Conversations with a Human Heart.

Tag: gratitude

billie & me.

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billie understands the way you should organize a bookshelf when the sun’s left his post. the way crickets should punctuate the crackle of vinyl. the way humidity should resurface the skin—a mustache of moist, a free feeling of funk. the way a stemless glass should rock—so sweetly in the palm, so gently near the tongue. the way darkness should saturate the windows, the way tomorrow should be made to wait.

because tonight is for me. and it’s for billie.

it’s about the sway of two strangers who’ve quite forgotten which decades they’re supposed to call home.

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black & white.

freedom black and white

Dear Existence,

I’ve been pushing things down and I hate that–that’s right, I’m opening this letter with a complaint about complaints. I’m overwhelmed by the feel of fullness, the over-stuffed sensation. Drunk on bottled emotion. So I’m sending all these not-so-terribly-wretched things out into the world for them (you) to deal with.

I hate feeling anything but love; I hate the way a negative anything can slip into my positive everything and bring the whole show to a screeching halt. I hate how utterly determined some people are to bringing other people down.

I hate my past when it rears it’s disgusting head, full of puss and condemnation. I want exfoliate my present of its past.

I hate problem creators—they are a spot on the lungs of the creative community. Why use our most remarkable gift to cause more fear, more hatred, more confusion in this world? Why misuse your magic in such a way?

The news. I’m so tired of what this machine has to say. So tired of wondering where this gnawing feeling originates—it’s on the television screen in every public place in this country. I don’t want to be in public when the public has so much fear to perpetuate.

Measles—someone say measles one more god damn time.

I might hate flying; certainly spinning.

I don’t feel safe traveling now; it occurred to me on this trip. The moment this enormous bird lifted itself from the earth’s surface I felt uneasy. Something’s wrong, something’s wrong, what is it exactly that is wrong.

I might hate flying, I can’t be sure; a double whiskey diluted feelings of oh shit something’s wrong. It’s much more likely I hate leaving my tribe behind.

And the little ones are in Poppi’s capable hands, but can’t help feeling the queerness of it all. Mama’s hands are for holding babes. Poppi’s hands are for holding Mama’s. Babes hands are for reaching out to these people they know as home.

I hate hearing the words choked on the other end when I say goodnight to them; they’re so much braver when we’re all at home. Chin up, little cubs. It’s only going to hurt at night.

I hate getting older; there are moments when I own that shit, but most of the time it feels like opportunity slipping through outreached fingers. You’re supposed to cup your hands—fists are even better. Smother those days into staying.

Youth is subjective. I know, I know, I know.

How many years before I let go of the ideas of “what should have been by now” and free my hands to shape what is?

Things that should have been: books written, names made, vows exchanged, babies birthed, disease beaten, voice found, body nourished, self found, money made, savings saved, countries visited, tattoos expanded, bridges mended, claims staked, past released, present-moment embraced.

I hate complaining; I hate being the one to complain especially.

I hate not finding all the words and stopping before I feel done.

Dear Existence,

But behind me is the coo of a warm mother; behind me is a heart unable to provide anything but love. And though her tiny creation can do nothing but wail, there is something of comfort in this moment. She calls her “sweet girl” and my belly stirs in recognition. There’s an ancient longing to give life, to house life, to grow life; and I love being a woman because of that.

I pushed life into this world twice; and I would do it again and again and again.

ShhhShhhShhhShhhhh and the rocking/swaying/bouncing babe is quiet for moments more.

We’re cruising past tiny lights of some anonymous city—with anonymous faces and anonymous buildings and anonymous cars and anonymous streets—and the copperorangegoldbreathyblueandink fills the gap between earth and sky.

And I fill the gap between earth and sky, too.

But what will fill the gap between black and white? Love. Love will fill the gap and spill back into my positive everything.

I found love. Can you believe that? I found it waiting in the place I left it and now I get to exist in love every damn day of my life. Can you believe anyone could be so lucky?

Dear Existence, I want to thank you for all the magic you’ve shown me in my 30+ years. I want to thank you first, for offering so many years to learn and grow in.

For every problem creator there is a solution finder, a problem eliminator. You’ll know a problem eliminator when you find them, they light up your insides like a halogen bulb. And you’ll feel more capable of handing life than you’ve ever felt before—a contagious fuck yes mentality. And the world is yours once again.

Spinning is much like flying and flying is akin to free.

Flying. Spinning. Freedom.

There are two worlds in every reality: black or white // black and white.

Perspective is what sets us free.

Dear Existence, thank you for the solution finders of the world. Thank you for sending them into my life when I need them most (and for knowing I always need them most).

Thank you for the words that sometimes come easily and sometimes make me work. I’ll be better for having the experience of both. Thank you for my dancing fingers across these familiar keys and the ability to accept that sometimes, not finishing completely can still be the perfect amount.

With love,

Your willing participant



[image: black//white]

coconut ceremony.

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We have been consuming fresh coconut by the dozens as of late.

Some sleeps ago, when my tummy whispered “dear human, I’m wishing for something delicious and not-so terrible for this healing body of ours,” I asked the mister to teach me how to clean a coconut, start to finish.

And so, in hours of the evening when most beings are peaceful in their beds, we cracked open a young coconut. we caught her sweet water in an oversized bowl and we passed it back and forth, our faces disappearing into the wide mouth, until every last drop vanished. We scored her flesh and lifted, piece by piece, chunks of pristine meat. With sharp utensils in our slippery hands, we laughed and talked and cleaned our little harvest, sneaking tiny bites as our pile of needs-to-be cleaned pieces dwindled.

I dare say that to clean a coconut is to be intimately acquainted with your food.

It is to establish respect for the nourishment you will be gifted; because there is no fruit without the ceremony. She will not yield without proper care.

“This, like dearest tummy” my heart says, “is what I needed, too.” 


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never too busy.

lunch is served

It’s easy to get lost in the momentum of your own world, to see only the things that rest mere feet from you—we’re moving briskly, self-contained vessels for ‘important’ tasks.

Most of my working hours are spent prioritizing jobs, self-delegating my to-dos, sometimes down to the minute. My world is important, so important that hours can slip by before I glance up from my screen and realize that life is happening around me.

So when my father phoned early this afternoon, I listened closely to his hopeful tone as he inquired if I was “busy.” And even though I could feel the anxiety mount, even though my busy-brain screamed “of course you are busy, so busy, why have we stopped?” I answered “Not too busy, Dad. What’s up?”

Through the phone I could hear his smile; his lips formed the words ever-so-carefully because his daughter was always so busy and he was just so proud.

“Why don’t you come by in a few minutes,” he proposed, “and bring the little ninja with you.”

And even though my brain spun wildly because there were so many ‘important’ things yet to be done, I answered, “sure. we’ll see you soon.”

With a steady hand I closed my computer. I picked up my little ninja, so engrossed in his drawings, and headed next door for a visit.

My father cares about details—that’s one of many legacies he’ll leave. He cares about taking care of his family, he cares about making our lives easier in any way he can. So when I walked into the familiar kitchen and saw the lunch he had prepared for his very busy daughter, I took a deep breath and whispered thank you to the open air.

Thank you for having the courage to walk away from your ‘important’ tasks, child. Thank you for recognizing what mattered most in this moment. Thank you for recognizing unconditional love, and thank yougoodness, Universe, I thank you—for gifting this incredible human to me, I’m so happy he’s my dad.

So look around, look up. Look through what you deem as ‘important’ to seek the important that’s real.

“No, Dad. Not busy. I never want to be too busy for you.”


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what I do have.

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“It is both a blessing and a curse to feel everything so very deeply.” —unknown


On days when the weight of being presses against my skin, I think: it would be so easy, wouldn’t it? such a luxury to feel less, to experience with a pastel intensity.

I’d be so brave with my words. I’d venture out into the depths of conversation with a steel cage around my heart and a megaphone against my lips as I spoke wild truths. And when answers and opinions and commentary were returned to my hungry ears, I’d smile and nod and say things like “that’s so amazing that you think the way you do.” We’d sip coffee and talk about all the extraordinary ways that our brains think in incongruences, all the ways our neurons have blazed their own brave pathways.

What I do have is the written word; and through the grace of my own special magic, language pirouettes inside this living drum.

Little by little, confidence and clarity detangle themselves from the snare of raw emotion. Words dive, one by one, from my heart, spinning wildly through my veins until reaching this precious brain.

Today I am grateful for my words—these words—that save me every day. I would die without language—smothered under the weight of all this feeling.


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today, I’m willing.

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there are days we feel well enough that we nearly forget there was malady at all.

we forget about the war being waged under the smoothest surfaces of our skin.

I have not had many of those forgetful days as of late; but the quiet of this morning, the cool promise of the air, the hours that roll out before me on this day I call ‘mine’ is enough to make me honor the pain, even the pieces I’ve fallen to.

I’m still here and I’m still willing.

today might not be so different in the realm of silent wars, but today I have peace on my mind and gratitude in my heart. 

this is how we heal.


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