Going Places

Late night drinks

With ducks in the background,

Chirping out their lungs.

New friends acquanting again.

Talk is cheap, but going places.

Another drink, I take a beer-

Sip down what the worries carry,

Down to the depths of where nonsense goes.

Fold the apron into my purse,

Spit chatter till my innards bleed-

Bleed out the truths kept hidden,

Hidden, waiting to be set free.

Should I project the usual tantrum:

Of roses being red,

And violets their deepened blue-

Darkened by the vague layer of what should be said,

But misconstrued.

Becoming the Dragonfly

An Old Letter I Wrote to Myself:

When exhausted, the little things can take over you and push you over the edge- Put the situation into perspective and look at the end result of what the situation will bring.

When confronting someone when a hurtful situation arises, approach the person involved, not someone who is not. When we avoid talking to the person involved in the conflict were experiencing, aka: gossiping, we feel that we have “taken action” to solve the issue, but in reality, we then suppress the issue and make it worse. Directly bringing the issue to the one involved brings closure- for yourself, for possible flourishment of your relationship, and clarity of which direction to go forth in.

Let go of your imaginary control over others. And this will allow space to love and forgive them, and~ let go. Move forward- you serve yourself and the other person more that way.

Each of our lives are built of many stories. These stories are breathed into every life we encounter. Understanding our differences and the lack of control we have of others outside of ourselves will help us to become more flexible and accepting in relationships.

Take time to listen, think, and gain perspective of what kind of person you desire to be, and who in your core you always dreamed of becoming and believe it with all your heart.

Note to myself:

Take time to listen, while parenting, think- what kind of women do you desire they become at their truest potential?

That should be great motivation to: stop, breathe and listen.

“We don’t all fit in the same mold.”

I am nobody, who are you?

There are too many requirements to breathe- to survive. They say this is the land of the free, a great place to thrive, while us bottom feeders born with no “legacy” scrape to live- scrape to devour the wisdom we yearn, with nothing much left but our dignity to give. You spin us a web, a road map to success, and the moment we tread the thread , we stick, and watch as the hunter comes in to feast it’s prey, without a shying glimpse. Success can definitely be possible, no doubt that things can always pan out, with the right frame of mind and the drive behind.. But we are not made of metal hinged together by the ideas of another man, we are creation we are creator we are of our own accord. We are wholeness, but we categorize like we have that right on each other. Delusional society. Lies after lies fed from one parent to their babe for years and possibly many more to come. Lesser, greater, bullshit that separates the soul from it true nature. It’s purpose to fulfil. I break the chain that grips my ankles grinding horns onto my bones from tug and pull. I break free and become no-one, no longer a part of the system we’ve learned to cling to blindly.

Chapter 3: Waking the Wounds of the Soul

Hello,

See what is true and acknowledge it’s existence. Kiss it’s wounds and apply the wisdom you have gained into a positive new direction- change of the old ways into the new.

Create, they tell me. Creator, they call me. Live life anew, they whisper to me- the angels of my world.

I feel like a loose cannon, with one more tap of my shell and I burst. Nobody likes deception. We are afraid of it. So what should we do to overcome it? Shall we observe why we are afraid? Do we deceive in return, because we fear that very same thing? Yes- by having a false identity is to deceive. And in fear we create one. When we are not honest about who we are or how we feel, that is having a false identity. There to protect ourselves is an outer shell we try to make impenetrable, but by doing this, we end up imploding from compacted identities and labels we create and accept. Until there is no more room and we scatter fragmented pieces of who we truly are from beneath the surface that end up revealing themselves anyway.

What we are paranoid or are afraid of is what we are giving in return. How do we overcome fear and distrust?

As I plunge through the caked layers of my outer surface, one I accumulated through my whole life’s experience, I understand now that I did this in order to survive the only way at the time that I knew how to. I feel the daggers penetrate slowly through my chest- sharp, straight forward and honest. Beneath the surface now. I feel it, fully. I found my children again. Unstable tears flood and I feel free. I found me. I see, and I can touch her shuddering shoulder that is afraid. I touch her, and she is aware. She and I look into each other’s eyes and we see, we feel, we reconcile, we heal, we love. I love you, I tell myself. I was just thinking some time earlier how detached I felt from who I was as a child. And I just found her through my children as I decided to sing that long requested lullabye I had mentioned a moment ago to my daughter that I was too tired for. I choose them. I choose us. I choose family. I want family. That to me is home. Not turning my face away to other stimuli in order to dull the pain and veil the truth. They help me grow and I help them grow. The inkling tugs at me that we are destined to help each other in life changing ways. Change has come through my doorstep. Welcome in. Come into my open arms. I am new. I perceive with new eyes, I am aware. I love, I am infinite.

I apply what I have learned, and I accept the pain, because it heals me. We are okay. Okay in a sense that we are where we are supposed to be. We learn at a pace that is fit for our own and ours alone. To think that you’re bad is to feel shame. To feel inner shame is to give up on yourself. But shame recognized can be a chance for starting new, awareness that you are hurting. Life is a continuous experience where we can grow, thrive, learn, fail and see that with the failure stems hope. Because without failure we would have nothing to learn and look forward to. So, shame hinders you from seeing the truth and the beauty that you really are. To avoid the taboo chase of I’m lesser and I’m greater than they, depending on others to take care of you when that is only possible by you alone, the eyes must look inward. And the truth of what lies within will create neutrality. That neutrality will bring peace. You will see we are all in this together, all responsible for our own choices. So, again I say, it’s okay you have the nervous twitch to lie, because that means there’s opportunity for inner growth. It’s okay to feel the need for revenge, because there’s opportunity to see an outside perspective. There is always a chance to grow no matter where we are, to find that true peace, that true worth, that true inner fulfillment, if you want it enough. The fact is that’s what we all desire, truly- A way back home to our hearts.

Dear Soul,

I forgive you for leaving your children. I forgive you for loathing them. Because I know you were hurting, you were loathing yourself. You were hiding from the very thing they are, that you once had forgotten, and were afraid of meeting with again- true divinity.

My Children,

You teach me. It took so much for me to see, but I am here now. I choose you. I choose you, because I have chosen to let go and heal, to love. You are the beacon that calls to me in the night. You rescue me. I choose you. I choose us.

We are one.

You are me. I am you. We are one. I am the judgement you place, because it is buried inside of my heart. I am the person who ignores their lover, because I feel I am not capable of receiving their love. I am the piercing stare in your hurting eyes from losing those closest to you. I am the anger that has fueled you from trying to take on the world with your desperate hands of control. I am the lustful tease that swoops in for a kiss to fill the cup of my abandoned heart. I am the manipulator who hoards the love of their targets to avoid looking at the lack of love I have for myself. I am the person who criticizes the beggar, because I feel I’ve earned so much but still don’t know how love and freedom truly feel. I am you who cries your lonely self to sleep with the offspring made together with your absent love. I am your squinting eyes that look into a reflection at an unrecognizable body, a body that isnt who you feel you truly are and find deep seeded shame. I am you who only sees idiocy in others to experience the worth I feel I lack. I am the gentle grip of the infant that clings to my parent, unyielding to receive the love that purely surrounds my innocence. I am the person who pulls the trigger with the barrel in their mouth, because I lost everything that validated who I am. I am you who helps the the broken soul to rise from their ashes into a beautiful Phoenix.

I am, we are- all reflections, all reminders to what is going on inside of us- Every thought, every feeling summoned up from within in response to another human being and how they live, what they choose. It’s a cyclical mirror shining into me, into you, into us. It’s how we recognize our pain, or our pure light. We recognize things that cause pain, like: lack, failure, stupidity, deception, etc. The pain resonates because we respond to it- with emotions like hatred, anger, resentment, superiority, inferiority, depression, victimizing of ourself. It’s like a signaling florescent sign in our heart, and it’s our choice to take on it’s guidance to find resolution or suppress it’s existence out of fear. But pain is not who we are. Pain is a guide, an inner path to see truth. We are love. And we are one. Compassion grows from knowing truth. It grows inside of you and for you, as it grows the same for me- Because you are me. And I am you. And that truth met, means healing. It means finding us- finding love.

In My Branches

The day became a bit frazzled in my head once it neared time to leave my sister’s house. Time to round up all of our things and head home. Which means, trying to juggle bags and things whilst not losing the kids on the way to the car. But I want to reflect now on how I can rethink and feel into these situations, why I feel the way I do. And how to redirect my thoughts to bring more peace and clarity into any similar situation.

I feel a penetrating life or death scenario play through me of the need to maintain control: my kids talking repetitively, raising their voice, their zealous excitement that comes in massive waves, and their unhinged anxiety that triggers. All of this learned from their environment, of course. My thoughts are, how do I make it stop?! It’s time to be bold and let them teach me so I may also teach them. I control how I perceive my life and life around me, I choose each action I take, thought I form or how I react to my minds majority of insane ramblings- That’s it! To think I control anything else is delusional- “A chasing after the wind,” as King Soloman said.

So, I choose clarity. As I state that I choose clarity my chest knots up in resistance. Well, too bad, I tell myself. The other way is like running around an endless loop with no finish line. I choose awareness, even if it seems “unrealistic” to my trained anxious mind. I choose the freedom it gives.

Let’s play:

What annoys me? I take a moment to look around. Someone’s car parked right at my bumper when there is more room in front of the car in front of me. This person once complained about pulling all the way up and making room for parking. Now, I see contradiction in their demands vs. their actions.

Is it in my control? No. Now, why does it annoy me? Ooh, that’s a tough question to answer. Maybe I recognize the senseless and delusional need for control in them that I, too, struggle with. Maybe when I look into this person I see a mirror of aspects of me that I am ashamed of. Maybe my anger is actually trying to tell me something- like how to recognize the similar aspects we share and move past them.

As I sit here writing I notice something- That the wind blows my hair as it wants to. And when I move it back to where I find it comfortable, it swoops in and blows it over again. As much as I place the strands back perfectly, they will never stay. That is, unless the wind were to stop blowing, or I go inside the house. But if I choose to sit where I am, I would continuously keep re-centering my bangs until I had no energy left but frustration and anger. Do I decide to move inside? Or do I stay and let go of delusion, embracing the fact I have no control of where my bangs are carried to?- over any force outside of myself.

Letter to my Beloved

Let the pages turn.

Let the wind that always billows in

Blow them over.

You don’t need to pull them back to where they were.

The pages turn, so write anew.

Write your story from where you are

And plant the seed that soaks the morning dew.

A new dawn to feed the flower meant to blossom-

To grow at your expense

And for everyone else’s.

Let the water drip from your blooming pedals,

Down to the collective waters.

Watch it ripple,

Watch it go-

Far reaching as it flows.

Always moving, changing,

Fluidly it’s body travels to souls on going-

Down the road,

The many paths that many go,

Their own.

Webs of you trickle down to help the souls in need.

Let the bloom extent it’s hues of love we yearn-

The love you learn as you grow.

❤Bekah Turney

Chapter 2: A Symphony

I sit alone again in the dark.

The trees are lit by a dim lit lamp.
And a soft hum of its dying light
Echoes a song of comfort-
Tales of a young girl on still summer night’s.
Molecules of the air only broken by
The gentle sound
Of words whispered through my bones-
Waiting to be spoken,
Waiting to be unhinged.
From these desperate lips I set a bargain,
Quarreling both heart and mind.
To reach an understanding,
A balance that peace can flow and bind
These sobbing opposing ends
To meet another in kind.
My muscles shake as fatigue consumes
And devours my restless hold
Of what I should let go,
Of what I have no control.
Blisters break and knuckles crack
As the soap is lathered to it’s core.
Wash away the truth
That watches me as I wake,
Watches as I place the shell over my soul.
Alas this tale is old,
And I see the young girl on her stoop
Listening to the hum of dying lights
On still summer night’s.
And ask her kindly how to find her heart again.
Cause she was free, and she was me.
And her freedom I see within,
Now reunited with a long forgotten friend.

——————————————-

Thoughts I redirect:

——————————————-

Truth can never be washed away.

It stays like residue on the skin

coming back time again.

To kiss at the open wounds created

by the resistant mind.

So I say it’s time to withdraw the blade that

keeps the pain.

Let it scab and understand

that truth is freedom,

and it heals our lost suicidal ways-

Of self sabotage we succumb to,

Day after day-

Lifting the veil to see,

No longer herding through life aimlessly.

Chapter 2: In Bloom

I’m at a seat for one- A late night reminisce and smoke. I puff. Watching smoke billow past my eyes, drifting in the lamps light. This is the time for silence. The singing crickets dance, I hear. a burn from flying ash awakens me to the present, I sit. A seat for one. Why I emphasize the number of guests, I’ll tell you. ‘Cause it’s times like these I sit and muffle, ready for my head to burst. The avoided thoughts come racing in at once. Never waiting for their turn, crowding each other to be the one that comes in first. I sit, and I ponder the plithera of hums and bums of what should take place inside this human head, this tired mind. Wait your turn, I beg. And remind myself that tomorrow isn’t here and every step won’t come at once, but over time.

Or is it that I yearn for this silence? To sit alone and stew. A test to jolt me alive- wake up, I urge my avoidant mind clouding over the details of what is right in front of me. To purge through the web of lies, but punched in the face by my want for escape. How easy I think it is to avoid my reality, how easy I make myself believe it is to dance about flawlessly like a ballerina, act after act, whilst my toes bleed. So much effort to hide the pain, to avoid the truth. To go on day to day without acknowledging my spirits embrace of honesty or telling it, I love you. Is this why I sit in the shadows at my seat alone? I think it so. But do I take the bait I give, and head home- I guess this time will tell. I’m writing it so I’m assuming as well.

What is it that makes us dread being alone- How do we go on day to day doing the same thing? How is it we seem okay, routinely walking in the same steps as yesterday. How do you feel at night as you’re about to fall asleep? What are your thoughts? What do you do to cope with your pain? What is it you have taught yourself to believe, I ask myself. Aren’t we all the same? We live, we breathe, we work to pay the bills and keeps our homes, our children eating. We in kind think thoughts amidst our minds all day, and yet we separate ourselves from fear of pain. Pain that another may cause us to feel inside, too far down to where it’s as if we might not survive. Because comforting ourselves seems like the ultimate impossible task, so we blind the truth and betray our hearts with false reality. Say it! What is it you want? I plead inside. Searching. Sitting where no one can hear me, where no one can find me out. So why is it still so hard to be honest when no ears can hear the truth I shout?

I remember sitting on that stoop, dirt powdered on my pants while smacking skin exposed to thirsty bugs ready to quench for their meals. I talked to God, sun waving goodbye to another routy day, pines blackened in front of the receding fire in the sky. I layed my eggs in his basket, because trust I was good at giving, and he I never saw, but felt. I was there, but then I wasn’t. Lost in realms, off to my curious escape. My heart gaped open, always chatting with the things I never saw but felt. Always running away from feeling the pressures of guilt- Guilt I was given, guilt I built. I was there, then I was not. But I saw, and what I could see was farther reaching than what was- In essence, I was free. We packed up and drove home, down the hill back to our coop. And as I walked up to that door I’d grown accustom to, I stared so mesmerized by how my eyes could see. The entrance seemed alive, new life enlightened within me. I remembered how those bulby flowers bobbed and mocked me every step I passed them. But their purple hues rich with vibrant color kissed my tickled tummy, and blew their beauty, warm under my skin. Shall I stop here for a while, and gaze upon this new found anomaly? Why should I be so lucky to feel? How desperate I was to hold its cohesive frame and believe it something real. 5 years young I dawdled on, and played with my perception. Now I see it, now I don’t, and smiled inside to know I hold the key to how I want to perceive and how I don’t. The moment passed, and I walked through that loosened door. Effortlessly swept away from night’s of soiled sheets and crying to mom on the bathroom floor. Her tired hands, I remember, cradled my arms. And I built- again the guilt, unintended, arose from what was out of our control. The bulby bud bloomed and taunted again, but wasn’t it nice to see it once as it truly was? – This memory now triggered decades on, of that long forgotten friend. Her untethered soul’s song. Recalled from a spiralling madness, taking on too much. Scattered amongst vines tangled in attempts of control, over and under I go. How do I start to release the knot that created itself with what were good intentions?

I snap the buckle. You should know this already, I say, as I run to the next necassary task. Herd the children. Good morning, goodbye. Hello and Good night. Will you pick me up in the day? No, baby, not today. Flip the mat over to its cleaner side and sweep up the rinds toppled by my feet. Pull back the cup that did not suffice and drown in the parade of endless fires to suppress and feed, repatching the expectation, the unmet need. Sink into the seat where I feel most free, fingers tightening around the wheel like desperate leaches thirsty for blood to regain any youth I lost. Look down to the sprinkled bags and rotten food wedged barely hidden by the seat and door. I stare at it, front of my mother’s house, not the same but the memory rebirths itself into my mind. Hello old friend. It’s nice to see you again. So young I seemed then, looking back now. But I didn’t feel that way at the time. Who would have thought a 5 year old girl could teach herself how to love 20 years down the road? That’s right- because to love is to let go. To love is to be free.

Chapter 1: The Beast Within

Every day I fight it- I don’t want to be here anymore. It crawls into my mind as I awake. A new dawn and my eyes open, alive still, back from my escape. I wish they could know it’s not their fault. That I love them with all that I am. But I feel crippled by the illusionary expectations of the way a mom and a human being in general is supposed to be. Every tug of the arm, countless and unnecassary, because mommy has to work for us to survive and to ever get out of a full house that turns the tempered poison in her gut. What else do you ask of me? What else is it I need to do? How should I smile? How should I laugh? How should I take care of the children? Did they really come out of my womb? Am I worthy of such a thing? Are they really mine? My own flesh and blood. No. It doesn’t feel that way. But here I am as I slave away like a ghost watching two beautiful souls bounce on their toes. The days, they pass and I notice that my oldest daughter’s legs have grown. They deserve the best. But I feel like I die each passing moment inside to have them. So the best isn’t me. Or so it seems. I cry because I remember being you, how hungry I was for love. I just don’t know yet how to feel the pain to give you what you need. So I tap my thighs to move my hands, I must resist the urge to numb the pain. I must get through this once and for all. Because I am tired you see. I may snap and kill the nearest prey. I am tired of thinking of ways to end my life. I am tired of hiding the fact that I don’t want to live here anymore. I am done “shakespearing” life to hysterical standards of another hurting soul who thinks they know best. Heres a toast to you, you bastard, here I am and I am hurting too. But you don’t know what is best for me. Only what is best for you. I don’t want to hear how life is just hard, and that that’s just how it is. If that is so, the beauty gone, left with the gust of wind, then goodbye. I will be no more. It wouldn’t be worth it to me. Don’t tell me that I have to work my body and spirit into dust, days and hours taken from me to make a living, because then I’ll say again, goodbye. I will be no more. Don’t tell me that all of that is part of earning your “mothers badge,” and to suck it up, because this is just the way it is, and it doesn’t get any better. If that is so I will be no more. It wouldn’t be worth it to me. Every day I step outside, every day I say goodbye. I tie the apron around my shrinking waste and I smile the way I am supposed to. Sometimes I feel the love grow hot from within, and others times I force my fidgety grin. There are times when the cold drips in and freezes stiff the feelings I resist- times when nothing can stop me and I feel like I can actually be the mom my kids need. You may find it appalling reading such brutal honesty from a woman you least expected. But I am tired, you see. And I am done “shakespearing” the expectations of society. I already feel the rot building up inside my stomach, how it eats away up into my chest. Every day more I find ways to soothe the pain. But it always comes back to show me what I haven’t yet stared in the face. How do we do it? How do we survive living off of expectations? How do we live a WHOLE lifetime that way- never truly having our own voice? How miserable that life must be. Let me tell you my story. And please do tell me yours. But for god sakes let me tell you my story.

To be continued.

-Bekah Turney