beautifully broken things

 

There are moments that are just…right. There are days where you wake up and you know. There are times where everything is a song, and the lyrics are at once beautiful and indecipherable. In those moments, the beauty is enough to sustain you. You don’t need to understand. You can let go and just be. Because everything is right. Because sideways or not, things feel perfect and hopeful. Because you have a reason that’s wordless and wild, like a heartbeat that’s thrumming its way through your body.

Some things are what they are. Some moments are born of a different skin. Some mornings, you wake up — and you just smile. Because love is love. Because things grow out of ashes. Because there’s no reason to look down when things are looking up. 

A sprinkler went off this morning. It wasn’t something I knew was going to happen. One of the sprinkler heads was broken, so it shot up like a geyser. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have even seen it — because the others ran too close to the ground. But it was the broken one that brought my attention to the moment. It was the broken one that said this is happening. That, my dear hearts and darlings, is the best metaphor I have for pretty much everything.

Despite the surprises, despite what might seem like insanity or chaos, things are right. Things are good. And this is everything that’s beautiful about life. *raises coffee mug* Here’s to today, my dears. May yours be as full of beautifully broken things — and odd moments full of such strange chaos and grace.

the heart is quiet

Earlier today, I found a note on my phone. I’d written it, obviously. Unless my phone has developed Gremlins. In which case…don’t feed it after midnight. But this note – I don’t remember writing it. I don’t know when it was written. I don’t have anything to go on, except what it says.

You are worth it.

That’s it. One single, brief sentence. And yet, it sparked a whole wave of thoughts in my head. Because we all what to be worth it – whatever hardship and troubles are in the way, between us and something else. Between us and someone else. Everyone wants to be worth the trouble, the risk, the difficulties, and disasters.

You are worth it.

Take a tough situation. Conjure one up from your memories. Think about your last, great, difficult relationship. There’s a moment, always, where you think: is it worth it? Is this person worth the trouble? [Whatever that trouble may be.] There’s that turning point where you look at all the chaos, weigh it, measure it – factoring in emotions with the facts – and you decide. It might not be a conscious thing, but it always happens. You always choose.

You are worth it.

Some situations are rife with fights, emotional shrapnel, and razor-wire that’s found its way into words. In instances like that, people often lie to themselves, convinced that it’s easier to stay, easier just to deal with it, easier just to keep on keeping on. That, darlings, is a lie made of someone else’s broken glass. Somehow, you swallowed it, and it’s torn up your throat. That makes it hard to talk, hard to move, and harder to fight. Harder to make the changes that you – in your heart – know need to be made. Hell, when you’re in any kind of pain (physical, emotional), it’s hard to make any kind of decision. Fire, bad. Tree, pretty.

You can’t do something like that (change your life; change your job; follow your dreams; chase a person) for someone else. That kind of thing isn’t something you ask another person (unless you’re Meredith Grey. Pick me. Choose me. Love me.). You’re not borrowing a car or a cup of sugar. But you’re standing in front of someone, vulnerable, open-hearted – saying, I’m right here – am I worth it? (Possibly, I might add, in the figurative sense.) You can’t change for a person, but you can change because of a person. Because that person woke you up, gave you something when you needed it, and maybe saved you a little – when you didn’t know you needed saving. And loves, we all need saving, now and again. Anyone who tells you differently is probably a little too Gollum (hiding in the dark; a little effin’ CRAZY; fond of raw fish. Wait…that’s sushi).

Here is what I know. Here is what I’ve been thinking about lately. The people who love us – who truly love us – they point out the things we’re obviously trying to ignore. They do this with love, but they do it. They look at you when you’re at your worst, but wearing a smile, and say – hold up, this is wrong. This is not a selfish act – to fight for someone else, for that person’s own wellbeing. It is easy to buck against, though, because it’s easier to hide. Because hiding means not having to face what it is we’re hiding from. It’s easier to stay in one place. But no matter how pretty the prison, it’s still got bars on the windows. You may get three square meals and a roof over your head – but that’s not all that life is. That’s not all that life should be. Choosing to stay in a moment, a situation, like that? Well, you become your own jailer. But I digress.

Someone who loves you – not your wallet, not what you can do for them –  will fight for you, even when it means fighting you. Even if it’s ugly. Even if it hurts. Even if it’s terrifying. Even if it seems crazy or impossible. I don’t believe in impossible. That’s just a challenge wearing hard work like a hat. I’m okay with that.

What we often fail to remember is that the ‘right’ thing isn’t always the sane thing. That the definition of right cannot be defined by anything other than your heart. Sometimes, the crazy thing is the best thing. The insane wild leap. Given yourself permission to be happy (strange, that we need to do that, no?), to pursue what makes you happy, to better your world. That choice is like magic. Because, yes, you are worth it.

When you need to hear it – and who doesn’t? – you are worth it.

 

“He isn’t interested in simple. He wants what he wants. No matter how much trouble she is and no matter whether he even understands it himself.” ― Deanna Raybourn, A Spear of Summer Grass

“The only problem is the heart is quiet. It takes a very special kind of person to hear what the heart says. Most can’t hear it at all and they have to guess. There are a lot of people walking around just guessing.” ― Suzanne Palmieri, The Witch of Little Italy

What to Do When the Gloves Come Off

I am tired of waiting –
tired of saying please
only to hear no,
a hurricane of excuses
wearing circumstances like masks,
wearing fear like too much lipstick,
wearing the ghost of someone else’s
mistakes –
his are not yours,
you are not him,
and this is not the same history.

I am tired of polite, tired
of clean, crisp, barely
staying on the road, leaving
heartbeats like breadcrumbs
hoping –
oh, fuck it.

I want to be free, flawed, dirty
and wild and selfish –
I am tired
of playing nice
and sitting still, legs
crossed at the knees or ankles –
that is a lie,
that is an image,
that is grey
instead of red,
spark
instead of fire,
a closed-mouth kiss
instead of tongue –

enough. Enough, now.
No more rules and regulations,
no more softly asked questions,
no more circling like hawks,
like wolves, wanting.

My mouth holds your name,
my hips hold your heart –
this is a confession
you once recanted:
come, take your name back;
come, steal your love back;
come.

You are everything I want
need
love – a name
I almost never say aloud.

This is challenge.
This is a promise.
This is my miracle,
a willing sacrifice
of strength, fragility
in a smile; vulnerability
in a laugh:
say yes.
say now.

Because I am tired of waiting.

My head is full of questions. My heart is full of stars.

This is an object lesson in chaos. A distilled grace that, without warning, leads to madness. This is a secret door. A road that does not end. The deep breath of a great, consuming wind. Somewhere, lightning sings in the distance. The song itself is a storm, a warning, and a weapon. Love – oh, it is like that, too. A ruin of ash, a perfect mystery. A glance across a crowded room, and all the waiting in the world.

This is an object lesson in chaos. Desire ripped to shreds, then reborn. An endless thing. A feeling that burns, begging to be fed – begging to be challenged. This is the truth, unreleased. This is all the words curled underneath a tongue. This is love with its hands bound tight – too tightly. Yet, love does not struggle. Some things are too powerful to need to speak.

This is an object lesson in chaos. This is how a mermaid pretends to drown. This is how someone else’s spell breaks. This is a gauntlet, thrown down. This is how fire becomes ice. This is nothing. This is everything.

My heart is a blind assassin. Yours is a thief.

How did this begin? It doesn’t matter.

How will this end? Don’t you already know?

on these days, I promise you things you didn’t ask for

 

Today, I am too proud.
I tell you I need you,
and then ask for nothing.
I let the space fill up
between us, an endless river
of fear shivering
through my bones –
you say I want to see you,
and I believe it.

(But I need more,
I need to feel it.
For that, you need courage.
For that, I am your prayer.)

Today, I am too scared.
I let the phone drop.
I listened to the dial tone
as if it might answer back,
as if I could find meaning
in its mechanics –
I found nothing.

(I need more.
My soul is in the walls.
Get a hammer.
Be my wrecking ball.)

Today, I –
no, let’s start over.
Dig up our last true moment:
my leg over yours, a laugh
as we kiss, hands
somewhere, everywhere,
the wind chime
of your fingertips telling me
everything I need to know.

(I need more.
I need us.
I need you.)

Today, I am too proud
to ask if you need me,
if you love me
back.

the lost girl

 

her heart is a compass. her eyes are a map, a plotted course to places she has never been. her past is a constellation of broken stars, a winding path through the woods, a slightly crooked train track. right now, her life is curiosity on a mountain cliff – the updraft of air during a freefall. Chaos invited with precision and purpose – outcome, unknown. she is always where she needs to be, destination unnecessary.

if being in love means being lost, she’s a gone girl. past the point of the no return, beyond the last mile marker for reason, far away from the fog of doubt. she wanders out in the morning light, never unsure. always searching. there are no traffic lights to hold her back. no yield signs. where is the no road, she creates one. where there is no light, she makes one. where there is no hope, she conjures it. some things are beyond sense – and everything about her is magic: her clockwork grace, her unfailing certainty, the way she can tell time by the shadow of a smile. some people search the sky the for true north. she holds it in her heart, no questions. no boundaries. no more going back.

her heart is a compass. she is perfectly, irrevocably lost.

you — I just want you

the only way up is believing in never looking down.

~Sara Bareilles, I Just Want You

I hate fighting. Hell, I hate even arguing – even when it’s a civil argument. Sometimes, it makes my hands shake. Sometimes, my words don’t come out right. Sometimes, it’s like dragging a boulder up through my throat. Fighting for what you want – for what you believe – it’s not for the faint of heart. It leaves no space for weakness. There’s no quarter for fear.

When I am certain about something, I fight. When I believe, I fight. And when I love, I love. This can be an epic disaster. I learn the taste of my own foot. (Needs salt!) I learn the depth of my own heart. (Endless.) I learn the ways in which I am brave. (Infinitely.) I have no excuses, only reasons. I have no lies, only the truth.

There’s a time – there’s always a point – where you just need to stop thinking. You need to stop weighing out life on a made-up scale. You have to live it. You have to live. Don’t get me wrong – thinking is a necessary part of life. But it is only one component. Feeling – what you feel – is important. And above all else, you have to be true to who you are and what you feel. Anything less than that isn’t living. It sure as hell isn’t fighting for what you want/need either.

But here is what I know. I’m a little left of the middle. I always honor my own heart. I don’t fall in love easily, but when I do, it’s like coming home. I am the person who will make you soup when you’re sick. I will hold a boombox up outside of your window to tell you that I love you. I will dance on a table, drink tequila shots, and laugh unless my face hurts. I am the woman who can’t fix everything – but I’ll be damned if I can’t do something to make it better. I sing all the time. I love deeply, possibly insanely, but in the truest way. I believe in risking everything to gain everything. I believe in risking, when I know that everything may explode.

I am my own person. I am not always easily understood. But I am true to myself. I am true to my own heart. I am a creature made of words, but those words are made out of feelings. I never fight dirty, but when I have to, I will go to war. Sometimes, being true to oneself means saying things you never thought you’d say out loud. Things that are honest, but not easily divulged. I’m not perfect, but I am wholly myself. Flaws and all. Wounds and all. Wishes and all.

Can you say the same?