I Don’t Write Anymore

The woman who started this blog is so different.  I used this blog as a place to process, to vent and to heal. Occasionally I used it to feed my ego.

But somewhere in the last two months, I have healed. I became free. I grew up. I let go of the Victim Story. I met myself at the place of Being.

My love, you will no longer find me here. Don’t look. And don’t worry.

I am outside,  playing. Or inside, laughing. I’m watching a sunset, with the arms of a loving, conscious and fully present man wrapped around me.

My love, I tried so hard to fit the roles I believed I should. I really tried to hammer you into shapes too. I betrayed myself, and blamed you. 

But now, my love, I don’t write anymore.  Writing was my little crevice of freedom. The door is open wide now, and I am on an adventure.

My love, this woman is gone now. She has let go. She is learning to Be Love. She is floating on the energy tide of the every day extraordinary. 

Don’t look for her here, my love.  I don’t write anymore.



Life is Poignancy

“I think you like to be sad,” he said to me in one conversation.  I took this on as a need for self improvement.  How could a healthy conscious person like to be sad? Isn’t the goal everlasting happiness?

That is BS, as it turns out. All life is energy, and that energy flows,  dissolves, solidifies and generally creates what we feel as experience.  No energetic experience is good or bad. The suffering comes when we identify with it. And self improvement is a version of self hatred.

“Don’t try to rush through your ripening,” my teacher said. “Enjoy the aliveness of longing and its poignancy.”

I thought he might be crazy. 

Then I thought about my favorite books and movies.  They all have a poignancy to them – some mix of tragedy and triumph, some hero’s journey or redemptive journey. And I love feeling that as I read them. I devour them.  And then put them down to do other things,  anxious to pick them up again.  No different.  Huh!

This poignancy is my ripening. Sort of the gestation period. And the delivery is my absolute knowing and surrendering in trust to the universe. I feel tinges of it as layers fall away from the retreat I attended this weekend. I tasted the joy of emotional and conscious connection.  I felt the tears of fulfillment when my offering of self was met with an unconditional Yes. I felt the indescribable peace of being with someone who embodies love and Being-ness.

Now I know. The longing has hope now,  clarity and the knowledge that I have felt what I desire, and there will be more.



Growing and Breathing

Whenever my child tells me she is in pain from growing pains, it reminds me of the truth of any growth process. My response to her is love and caresses.

This weekend has been filled with growing pains. I’m very uncomfortable on the inside. Normally I would swallow all of this and carry on. Today I’m not.

Like my little one, I’m allowing it and like her I am going to acknowledge the pain as well as all other qualities of the energy. And see what I can do and learn with its energy.

The Saddest Poem by Pablo Neruda

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: “The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.”

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don’t have her. To feel that I’ve lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn’t keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That’s all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else’s. She will be someone else’s. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

Pablo Neruda


With a loving smile, he said, “You are strong and smart.” I’m also silly and fragile.

“You need to forgive and release,” said another. There is nothing to forgive.  I’ve released a thousand times and will release a thousand more.

“Look at how many people love you, ” she said in soothing tones.  And I feel the aloneness that comes from being on such a different path.

Every projection you have of me is both true and false. Every projection I have of you is true and false. Its all of the mind.  The wordless experience is where the truth resides. As soon as I try to put words to it, some essence is lost.

The Awareness having each of those experiences is the I. The joy is in that awareness, not the energy or specific experience. 

Like a hungry child, I return there momentarily, now like a begger for scraps. But soon, that will be my home, my infinite landscape.