Grief is Love

I wanted to write on my therapist site this morning but my brain is unable to acclimate to that form of thinking and writing this morning. Feeling my mom, feeling sorrow, feeling forgiveness and redemption…a christ like feeling, pure love that absolves all conflict and separation…call it christ, krishna, love, doesn’t matter. The story is just the story but the force is the force and the force is with me. So much love in this certain quiet way. A way that wants to mother. A way that wants to absolve. A way that wants to be held and to let go into masculine strong arms that can hold all that I feel. Not a scaredy cat man but the man who is so connected to nature he feels at peace with the storms. I have storms coursing through me but they are not passionate. They are quiet storms that are cleansing the bottom feeding emotions. I am no longer relating to those bottom feeding emotions. Bring me a higher love. What are your bottom feeding emotions that seek out some conflict to express? Judgement? Jealousy? Envy? Hate? Rage? It all roots back to the same bottom. Lack. Violation. Emptiness. I feel everything but that. I feel my mommy in the sky. I feel the effulgence of life. I feel it even though it does not arrive on the outside in the strong hairy man arms or in the cash flow or recognition from the world. It shows up as deeply intimate friendships and sacred family ties. It shows up as forgiveness with every single conflict. It shows up as the sweet scent of jasmine and rose. It shows up as coffee and prose. Now I am just rhyming. I keep needing to speak in rhymes like a bard. I am filled with the desire to travel the world speaking in rhyme. I crave new life but keep pursuing the one I am living. Torn inside. My mommy watches and she must know something I do not. I realize I have transferred my grief into this bar by my apartment. I write the poem about my mom in there. It’s not about the booze. It’s about the atmosphere. It’s a loud ambient magical cauldron. I don’t want to be home alone in my robe every night. I don’t want to attend groups on healing because my life is way way way too much about healing. I want more variety in my life. Fun. Wild energy, which for me is creative expression, deep conversation, and the dark ambience of places at night that house the joy. I know bars also house alcoholism, stupidity, and youth but I am ok with this. I have always been comfortable around the dark side of human nature. I like being close to it, in a way. Maybe this is why I prefer city life. I don’t want to be tucked away in a clean rich suburb. This is just me. No judgement. I have transferred my grief into this bar. It’s weird. I am like those baby ducks from the science research studies. You know, the ones that lose their mother and attach to a stuffed duck? Except I have attached to a bar. This bar is my stuffed duck. How weird is that? I am a weirdo. I don’t mind. I don’t drink too much and I stay out of my robe. I miss mommy so much. I am regressed. A little girl. I am also the woman. I am the healer exhausted from giving too much and not getting enough back in return. I am the artist needing my next book to land in my lap and take me away from the over-emphasis on healing. Plus, this country is in need of voices. I am taking my privileged head out the sand now. Ready to contribute though I don’t know how. I will. I am. I got off the distracting book of faces and hopped on to the very political Twitter only to realize it’s a huge high school of people arguing and venting. Yet there is more seriousness to it. More depth. Maybe. It’s a start. Cute men roam the streets this morning and I want one of my very own. I don’t know who is right for me anymore. I am confused. I carry my mother’s wound. I carry the love to heal it fully. I am love manifest. I am the effulgence of forgiveness. I am free.