Some nights...

My feet sink into the lush, vibrantly deep green grass. It feels silky soft, smooth and cool to my skin; just slightly long enough to be considered overgrown, and my feet leave gentle imprints where my weight has bent the blades.

Don't forget to count the trees: 1, 2, 3...

 The mist has risen again tonight; gradient fog, clinging to the tall rows of trees I walk between-- swirling around my limbs as I step lightly down the center of the cedar grove.

4, 5, 6...

Glancing up, I see the moon. Big, beaming and shadowy as wispy clouds float across it's glowing face, almost pulsing in the night sky.

7, 8, 9...

He is ahead of me.

10, 11, 12...

He dances in the hollow, between the night and the dawn, balanced on the edges of things.

13.

The cedar trees tower over me on either side. I feel as though I am part walking, part swimming through a misty sea -- I can begin to see the outline of a person, standing ahead of me.

Taking a deep breath, I rise up on the balls of my feet, my toes bending at a 90 degree angle in demi-pointe, my arms raising up as I close my eyes and tilt my head back, with my eyes closed. A smile plays about my lips as I hold in sous-sous, sending energy out my fingertips, and down my feet into the earth.

He breaks into a loping run towards me. My breath catches because I can hear his feet thudding the earth, feel him propelling himself rapidly toward me.  Air rushing past his strong body, I'm imagining his heart pounding slowly and steadily behind his ribs, but I keep my eyes closed.

Strong, warm hands grip my waist, then slide to my ribcage, as he gently lifts me into the air.

We dance.

Our muscles work hard, but these lifts, turns, balances... this partnering, feels effortless.  He smells like clean sweat, cedar, vanilla bark, and rain on flagstone.

Hours pass. Then, our pas de deux finishes.

He rests his hands delicately on either side of my face, his thumbs feather-lightly stroking my eyelids.

       "Please open your eyes." It is a polite request, not a voiced order, so I do. His voice is rich and medium toned.

      "I've never seen you before now. You're.... different than what I pictured in my head," I half whisper, nodding self-consciously.

His eyes are golden pools of bourbon with flecks of mica, and they seem look through my outer surface, deeply into the center of my being. His gaze is gently probing, curious. His skin is the deepest, blackest coffee bean. The curves of his face are graceful and strong, like his dancing, and he looks.... familiar.

"I know you. How?" He smiles, and puts a finger to his lips, as if to say, 'no more questions...' Glancing down at my feet, I feel the heat rising in my cheeks. Suddenly he's sunk to a crouch and is tracing the outline of my skin colour changes with his fingertips. It's a very light touch along those borders across the tops of my bare feet, and I shiver.

       "You are different. I like that. I like that you're not hiding your skin. I hope you're embracing this.... Vitiligo. This change."

       "I've had it since I was little -- honestly, I feel as though it should bother me, but it doesn't. It's just... how I look."

       "Amazing, and... symmetrical."

       "I suppose. Eventually, my whole body will be white as a ghost."

       "Does that upset you?"

       "Not really... I feel cool.... like a leopard who can change its spots. It doesn't change my heritage or who I am, it's just... part of how I look. Universal vitiligo, I mean. It doesn't change who my parents are, or my culture. I'll miss how my darkest freckles look against my walnut coloured skin, but I was born with strawberry blonde hair anyway. I'm used to looking unique."

       "I do find the patterns of it, the contrast between light and dark exotically fascinating."

       "Thank you."
     
       "How did you come to be here? Who sent your invitation."

       "I thought you... ?"

       "No. I am the partner. I lead the dance, someone else sends the second. How were you invited?"

       "I found a note under my pillow. There have been three. Three notes to come here. Instructions to keep my eyes closed once I pass the 13th cedar tree... to dance blindly until beckoned to see."

       "Ah. Curly handwriting? Sepia toned ink? Parchment fashioned from the bark of a Birch tree?"
     
       "Yes."

       "Interesting."

       "So, you know who sent me the invitations?" He paused, as if unwilling or uncertain that answering my question would be the right thing to say.

       "Mmmm. Why did you accept?"

       "I miss pas de deux. I miss... being part of a company."

       "I'd like to hear more about that experience and the feelings associated with it. Now, however, we must part ways."

       "Now that I've seen you -- I know it was you the other two times, the other two dances. I'd recognize you with my eyes closed, even though now I know what you look like."

       "Appearances can be deceiving, but bodies -- movements, following and leading, heartbeats and quality of touch -- those never lie."

       "Is there a way for me to write to you? To contact you?"

       "You'll receive a different sort of invitation. You must go now."

       "Good bye then."

       "Good evening." He did a triple fouetté then took a knee and placed my hand on his heart for a moment. Then, he was gone, running back up the line and disappearing into the mist.

I turned on my heel, unsure of my feelings. Strange though my dreams may be, I'd never have previously believed that I could accept an invitation into someone else's, or an in-between place, or wherever we were.

 Closing my eyes, I began to walk backward the way I came -- counting my breaths to 13, until the swirling fog began to rise up my body -- colder and colder. I felt myself floating away again, falling backwards, and when I opened my eyes again, I was safely under my old, worn cotton comforter. Staring up at the old stick-on-glow-in-the-dark stars I had put up on my bedroom ceiling on my 11th birthday, I sighed.

Tomorrow I'll finish unpacking. I'll move into the master bedroom. 

Saying goodbye to my parents had been heart-breaking and the most difficult thing I'd ever done, but I couldn't keep pretending that I was all right. Sleeping in my childhood bedroom, waiting, as if they were  going to come home any minute.

I'm 23 years old. I can do this. The funeral was 3 months ago. It's over. That was the hardest part, right? I can make this house less empty if I finish unpacking and sorting. Mom would want me to 'get on with it,' as she'd say. 

Glancing at the clock; 1:11 A.M.

I grabbed Pride and Prejudice, from my nightstand -- Jane Austen would help me sleep. Help me forget that I was alone in my deceased parents' house, and engaging in strangely lucid dream fantasies.

Maybe I've been elaborately hallucinating.

No, if I was crazy, then how come I'd saved the all too materially real notes -- stuck them into the pocket of my day-planner to remind myself that I had something to look forward to.  For now, sleep. Sleep would get me to the new day tomorrow-- or the rest of today, rather.

I'll start with the stars. It's time for them to come down, and fresh paint to go up. 'Nothing less expensive works to transform a room than a gallon of paint,' Mom always said. 

Yes. Tomorrow, the stars come down. 

The heavens fall. 
The earth moves.
The sun rises.

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Two Posts in ONE NIGHT???

       "I'm going to go for a walk, I think..."

       "Okay. Love you."

       "Love you too."

Whooooooooshhhhhhh.... goes the air through the vents, making the hair on my arms stand up.

 Looking over, I see the sleeping form of my oldest, his long legs curled to the side. The little one has kicked off his covers again-- too warm I suppose; though my fingers, usually hot, are cold as I type.

Kids grow so quickly; such a cliché to state, but quite true, nonetheless.

Curly heads facing the windows, unison breaths in and out -- they'd snuggle in their sleep and wake each other if we let them get close enough on our big bed.

Tonight is the Full Super Blue Blood Moon. What an incredible thing to witness. I haven't seen its full glory in person yet, beyond pictures, and perhaps I've missed it. After I finish my entry, I'll look.

I notice my chest feels tight, and I cough. Residual respiratory irritation. Yay. The flu season peaked for us over the Yuletide, and we're still recovering, all of us.

J isn't back yet, but I know I'll hear footsteps soon.

SHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhh... I hear the shower kick on, the rain head echoing in our tiny bathroom.

       "Hey Darlin', you writing?"
       "Yep."
       "Have you seen my journal?"
       "All three of them are on top of the bookshelf, on the left."
       "Thanks."
       "Sure."

The little one rubs his face back and forth on the comforter, softly crying out and coughing. Time for snuggles, and for me to read my book in the darkly orange glow of our bedroom lamp.

I am grateful for this moon, and the energy it carries.

 I am safe tonight, and I will never take my partner for granted, because J is a big part of my feeling of safety and coziness.

Maybe some day I'll scream about it from the rooftops; this marvelous feeling of comfortable, lasting,  accepting of everything love.

I am glad that we found each other, every single time our eyes meet.

My person.

I remember once in my teens, telling my voice teacher Naomi, when she asked me if I was in love with one of my best friends, and whether or not I was okay with seeing that person date someone else:

       "Maybe I am, but if it's meant to be, it will happen. I think finding even a single person that I  can connect with is what's important-- regardless of sex or gender, or orientation. Sure I love him, and maybe it's romantic love, but even if I never kiss him, I'll still love him. I'm open to being in love with women too. Love never goes away; it's like energy-- it simply changes forms. I'm okay with waiting for the right person for me. I'm not losing anything by not professing how I feel to him, while he's in a relationship -- that's not fair. If we both end up single, at the same time in the future, then perhaps." 

We did, and I did, and we had a great weekend of making out, and then reality set in and we returned to our lives separated by three states.

I'll always think of him fondly and love him as a friend. He was part of my finding myself when I was going through the second deep heartbreak of my life.

Love changes us. Each time we love, we learn and grow and get better at healing our wounds.

Love has many nuances, flavors, feelings...

The heart wants what it wants, in the moment and beyond, each wave paves the way for the next.

      "You almost done?"
       "Yes. How was your walk? Did you see the moon?"
       "I did. It's big."
       "I'll have to go take a look."


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Think Before You Speak...

Me, Myself & I:

I wear more than Converse.

I speak more than English.

In my head space there are corners around which I am squeamish.

I write songs no one hears.

I have novels un-read.

I can't quiet the thoughts I feel, drowning in dread.

I live in the space twixt the dark and the light.

I long to connect, but I fear that I might.

I try to let go, but I'm holding on tight...

Keep it safe.

I sing more than lyrics.

I can memorize quickly.

There's not just my way; people do each thing differently.

I can draw with charcoal.

I can paint with my hands.

Every day I must move, my whole body must dance.

Sometimes a person discovers new things 'bout themselves.

They want to sink that chapter back into the shelves.

The difference is owning our wounds and our wells.

Trust your heart.

I can act with my love.

I can cry from my soul.

I can access that part of me, which keeps me whole.

My joints bend too much.

I re-live old slights.

You've probably forgotten; I re-play under lights.

In my mind I empower and torture my being.

All the things I don't say; intuition is seeing.

If I choke on emotion, you won't see me breathing.

I'm here.

Grey Day, HOORAY! Here's a poem for RIGHT NOW:

Some days feel like fall.

Fall into the spirit of the moment.

Moments are what life is made from.

From outside to inside I take a pause.

Pause life? Impossible.

Impossibilities are a lie.

Lies can drown a person.

People don't often realize or listen well.

Well, at least you're here today.

Today is the time to read between the lines.

Line the inner drawers of your heart with cushions of strength.

Strength is shown in compassion and emotion.

Emotions are not a sin or a crime.

Crimes against oneself or others are all too common.

Common ground is the space between you and the enemy.

Enemies are created; they're fiction.

Fiction is not as strange as the truth.

Truth is subjective.

Subjectivity is every person's experience in life.

Life, in essence, is breath...

SO TAKE A DEEP ONE.

Take My Hand Cause' We're Walking Out Of Here... - D.M.B.

A new hair cut.

I cut my own.

I snip the split ends, like I wish I could snip the problems of the world: Cleanly off.

I trim two inches.

Not enough.

Two more.

Wait a few days....

Another few inches hit the floor.

Feather, feather, feather.

Kelsey taught me this...

Just a little at a time.

Even isn't the issue.

Layers.

Like ogres and onions and my home-done haircut.

Long.

So long.

Grow it out, trim it up, cut it off.

Shorter?

Sometimes I wish it was.

Sometimes I wish for red fuzz a quarter inch off my scalp.

What message would that send the haters?

I am my own me.

The boss of my body.

Self-esteem tangled in hair.

Red hair. Redhead.

Should I dye it blonde?

Change.

I want the world to change, but fighting though I am, it's not. Not yet. Soon, I hope.

Appearance, image, esteem.

Challenge my own opinions of myself.

Will I be less me with a buzzed head or platinum locks?

Someday I'll have the guts.

Maybe sooner rather than later, I'll take more of a chance.

For now, I just dare to cut my own hair.

And So It Begins...

Do not go gentle into that good night

Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

September, October....

Where did September go?
Things are moving fast, then slow...

This is my favourite time of year.
The wind turns brisk and the pumpkins are here.

I am tired, but happy.
I'm nostalgic, not sappy.

There are so many things I want to do.
I have so many goals I'd like to see through.

My heartbeats thud, like the sap in the trees.
Preparing for the colder weather, for the freeze.

Now's baking and reading and nights by the fire.
Smelling apples and leaves, being compelled to conspire.

Take a moment and breathe it in.
Fall into autumn and watch it begin.