The Write Way Through It

We are living in a time of isolation. We are living in an age where the narrative is god and the people controlling the narrative are monsters of consumption and whores of control. 

In my spiritual practice, my latest guidance has been seemingly simple. "Grieve Honestly." 

Two words.

I began a yoga practice this week. I thought it would refuel me. Instead, it is pulling up my grief. I've known grief throughout my life. Trauma and grief. And I've known joy too. Joy and love. 

I wish there were a ritual for this time of life. When the bleeding stops and the need to sleep and eat wanes and you are left with yourself in these hours where it seems the whole world is asleep. Drifting. Raging. Wondering. Waiting.

Grieving.

I have so much to tell you. I hardly know where to begin. 

Because of my incest trauma, I find it very difficult to take anything seriously that is framed in "Christianity" or any organized religion really. I think these things are flags for the self-appointed-anointed. I used to think religious people were a safe haven. But, I know too much now.

When I think of my own spirituality it amazes me how personal it is. It reminds me of the 80's. When sensuality was something and connecting to another person was electric and there was a kind of striving and wanting and also a seemingly limitless energy stream coming from my soul. That vibe of live music and midnight food and a deep knowing that the next adventure was going to take me someplace euphoric. A direct connect to a wishful hope.

I grieve the loss of that in the world even as I feel it pulsing in my own soul.

I call her GiGi. Great Goddess. And her muses of fire are my rage, my challenge to grow. In PTSD recovery I learned that I had to get angry. Embrace my rage. I was told this was human. Avoiding experiencing anger made me stuck. I had to get mad. That was a tall order. My Mother had been a raging monster when I was a child. Chasing me down narrow hallways and tackling me. I'd always thought that if I let myself get angry I would become just like her. And I have gotten angry. And been called a bully. And I don't care about the misogynist view. 

GiGi is teaching me the power of rage and it's kind of freaking me out.

As a woman, as a girl, or maybe just as me, I have always been trained to make things right and to get along with everyone. You can imagine my surprise when the muses rose up and had some choice words for a certain person trying to bring me harm. I was disoriented.

I was shaking.

I had to realize THAT'S what all of this boundary work has been about. That's why I worked so hard to be able to leave my house again after my friend had been rape and murdered on Christmas day and then driven around in her own car. That feeling of rage meant someone had crossed a line. And that line was put there with great intention. And people WILL do great harm if given the opportunity. Setting boundaries is the only way we have of telling them, NO! FUCK YOU!!!

The "Christian" way is to call me inflexible when you cross my boundary. 

(this is where I take a music break and write a song about how my Daddy groped me in my sleep the night before the morning he preached family values on behalf of the Masons)

Did you know the Masons believe Jesus is an alien coming to save the world on his UFO? 

I digress.

The point is, I'll probably start writing about GiGi and her Muses of Fire because that's the only way I can see through all of this grief.

It may get personal. I may need to ask you to set an egg timer so I can vent for a 2 minute diatribe. Sometimes my husband will tap out a beat in the background during these events. This will be a record of my day-to-day artistic survival during a time of two years of pandemic.

A time when humanity is fighting for its own soul. A time when people choose not to get vaccinated because their fear is so much larger than their love. A time of rage.

I have so many questions.