Bleeding Hearts (A Valentine's Day Memorial)

I think the tricky thing about Valentine's Day from here on out will be the lonely suffering. Well, I guess most of my trying times are endured alone, but on a day when everyone is happy and celebrating, one certainly doesn't wish to be the wet blanket on the Love Parade.

Why does this day have to be so hard anyway? 364 other days in the year that he is also gone, and never coming back. What does it matter that it was this day he left forever? I don't understand that. It's like the echo of grief, of the death howls from that day two years ago that resound through time and space and catch up with me, making me feel what, on most days, I am able to acknowledge but flee from rather quickly. No such luck today. No such luck last year either, even though I had intentionally tried to escape by vacationing in Mexico with a throng of friends. But it hit me there, too. There is no escape. Valentine's Day is, and will always be, the day my Dad died.

It was such a fucking horrible day, and the weeks and months that followed... ugh. I think that hurts more than plain old missing him. I don't like to remember the whole sequence of events. I loathe thinking of what transpired almost immediately after he passed. Such ugliness, still unresolved, and may also forever remain that way. He left, and with him went life as we knew it. Forever changed by his absence, as well as by the crimes committed against each other. We will never be the same.

Not that "being the same" is all it's cracked up to be anyway. I am far from the same person I was when he was alive. You imagine these things when someone dies: "What will it be like a year from now? Two years? Five?" I never would have imagined, or dreamed it even possible, that two years later I would be able to say "I'm happier than I've ever been." And yet, I am. Most truly. My mind spins thinking of all the sadness and loss and pain and struggle of these last two years... so then, to have been even more blessed, that I am able to feel such joy and gratitude... how else could that have happened without such a grand angel watching over me?

Angel, that makes me laugh. I picture him with some faerie wings strapped to him, like a costume I would have begged him to try on, with that look of pained disgust mixed with a hidden smile at my delight and laughter. I remember that look. I keep all his looks close at hand, or in mind, as it were. The crinkles in his neck. The twinkle in his eye. And his smell is still sealed up in that bag I haven't emptied yet in these two years. His bag from the trip. What he had packed for that weekend, all of it still there. I open it from time to time, thumbing through, bending my head low to inhale deeeep.... yep. I'd know that smell anywhere.

It does, indeed, feel like the echo of that day and time two years ago. I can't listen to any music today. The silence is thick. I am not hungry, but finally forced myself to eat. I want to curl up into bed, and shut the world out for the whole day and night, and possibly into next week... but there is business to tend to, and so I'm paying bills and jotting down my to-do's for the week, just as I did then. I don't feel that I avoid my grief so much. I allow it into my days when it comes requesting my audience. I cry. I talk about him. I talk to him. Shake my fist at the sky and tell him, "You're in big trouble when I see you again," half-joking, half-sincere.

He knows better. He knows me. He knows my bark is bigger than my bite. He knows that my skin is much thinner than I let on. He knows my popcorn goes in the special bowl. He knows I am never running from the problems, but running towards the solution. He knows that under my sharp words lies a very good heart. He knows sometimes I just need someone else to bear my weight.

There were things he knew about me that I didn't know myself. Though I can't ask him to tell me, he finds a way. I have come to learn and understand many things about myself since he's been gone. Things he had even told me once, but I didn't see it then. Resented him thinking he knew me better than I knew myself. But he did. He saw in me a better person than I ever saw. He had faith in my abilities and talents. Courageous, strong, fearless... I heard him describe me in these terms many times, and I thought he must have been drunk. But he wasn't (lol... I think). He was my Dad. He made me. He inspired me. He modeled good life to me. He believed in me.

Now, when Valentine's hits, and in my solitude I am awash in the Sea of Memory, I search for land to grab onto again. As I pull myself onto shore, I am met by the blooming Bleeding Hearts he always planted in my honor.

St. Valentine's Day. The day of hearts. He died from his. And mine bleeds for him forever.

and even this poem sucks

In the midst of all the busy-ness

as life flourishes

and projects and plans march onward, resolutely,

and people reach out to help

to participate,

offering skills and supplies

free of charge

given with love,

and others call just to check in

making sure I am well

and drinking tea,

and everything in the world is going my way

my mother is nursing a dying husband

my aunt will have to sell her home

my grandfathers are both unwell

and the anniversary of dad's death is just around the corner

an eternal blight on the day of love

and it's been a long time since I've had someone to hug me a bit

or kiss the top of my head

or hold my hand while I sleep

and writing songs is on my to-do list everyday

and never gets done

and even this poem sucks

exhausted

emptied out from giving my all

hurting mostly from always wearing the brave face

I would that I could cry

but it just doesn't seem right

Being Right

"You don't need to be right. You need to be smart."

Words from my ex-husband's mouth that used to drive me crazy.

Why should I stifle myself?

Why should I mask a truth that merits being known?

How can I stand by and watch someone I care about fuck his own life?

He was right, my husband, in telling me not to be right, to be smart.

The messenger often gets shot, or hung, tortured or just plain fired from the job.

It's happened to me this way many a time.

If I need to be smart, then I should start by learning from my past.

I am at the precipice of the second stage of my life.

I am a woman, fully grown, competent and on my own.

Being truthful with myself should be enough. Must be enough.

Others will either discover for themselves what they need to know,

or will suffer the hard lessons and the failures destined for them on their journey.

Everyone learns in their own time.

Some are simply not ready for sage words when they hear them.

It is not my job to save you.

That's not what I was hired for.

I have learned some things, but am still learning others:

like how to care less, or shut up,

or love wholly inside, but taper love's external expression.

I would argue this point with my husband.

I took offense at the very notion

that it might be in my own best interest to

love less?

I didn't even understand what that meant.

It means this:

To really love someone unconditionally and purely,

you may have to

bite your tongue

smile and nod

let them fall

reserve opinion even when it's pleaded for

be selfish...

...and when all that is hard to do,

keep contact to a bare minimum,

lest you risk the love, the friendship, the job

just to be right.

The Real Lap of Luxury

I am living in the lap of luxury.

It's not about things people, not about the things at all. I look around at my surroundings, and examine MY things... a hand-me-down dining room table, clothes hanging in my closet that have been there for a decade or more, a tv in my bedroom not even hooked up to any cable. I have no assets - no expensive jewelry, no fancy car, and I've never been a homeowner.

Yet I wake up every morning happy, and almost tearfully grateful for another day in this amazing life. From the minute I open my eyes, I am excited for the day ahead - even knowing it may be filled with challenges or stresses - because it is my day, every day, to live as I choose and to be whomever I wish to be. How could I consider myself anything other than absolutely stinking filthy rich?

I am far from famous. I have certainly not acquired any kind of national, regional or even local renown, despite the hundreds (if not thousands) of performances given, songs sung, dances tricked out. A fellow local singer was introduced to my music the other day, and she said "Yeah, I've heard of her - she's a hippie chick, right?" Not quite. But how would she know? I am a tiny speck on the map of these times, that wouldn't even show up unless you zoomed way in.

But I am surrounded by a community of people that at this moment are working hard on my behalf: editing my music, building my website, writing up press releases, setting up an LLC, drafting budgets, designing marketing campaigns, learning songs, choreographing routines, sketching costume designs, building sets. They are all friends. They are all people who believe in my vision, and support it, and are themselves fulfilled to be a part of it.

More than that, there is an even wider community of people who love me, and express their love for me, on a daily basis. People interested in my goings-on, friends who come to me for counsel and exchange meaningful and uplifting conversation, and beloveds who pop in just to share moments of affection ~ snuggling in to watch a movie, kissing the top of my head, embracing me in a long, deep hug.

How could I not feel like the center of the universe? How could I ever feel lonely? In fact I do, at times, but have to immediately laugh it off. I am as cared for and catered to as the queen of England, for all I can see.

The definitions of luxury:

1. Something inessential but conducive to pleasure and comfort.

2. Something expensive or hard to obtain.

3. Sumptuous living or surroundings.

From my view, absolutely anything material is inessential, but conducive to pleasure and comfort. I've said before, all I really need to be happy is a place to sleep, food to eat, and a regular bath. Anything more is luxury. From the towel I would dry myself with, to the rings I put on my fingers. All are luxury items to me.

Inner peace and true joy elude most people living in this world. They seem to be the hardest things in life to obtain. Though they have no monetary value, they do come with a price: hard work, a willingness to release fear and pain, introspection, and time devoted to acknowledging spirit. To awaken to each day with a joyful heart is pure luxury, and worth more than anything in the world that money could buy.

Sumptuous living and surroundings... this is more subjective, I think. I am right now in a warm home, on a comfortable bed draped in a $60 bedding set, whose beauty I cherish. I look forward at the wall, with a framed sketch of Billie Holiday, made for me by a dear friend way back in high school. I see my clothes, bright and colorful, hanging in the closet next to me. Everything I look upon is pleasing to my eyes, and gives me a feeling of comfort and contentment. I have everything I need, and more. I have abundant luxury surrounding me.

"Perception is key", they say. "It's all a matter of how you look at things." "Do you see the glass half-empty, or half-full?"

I live in the lap of luxury. The good life. Pura vida. It's not about the things, it's just a matter of how you see the things. Try on my rose-colored glasses for awhile. It's a wonderful, magical, most blessed world.

By My Journals' Decree (a year on the page)

I just had the most glorious morning of journal writing, and felt inspired to carry it over here, to my long-neglected blog.

Hello friends. Sorry it's been so long. I have missed you too, and come to this page more often than you think... but as life has become a mind-blowing whirlwind in recent months, I've found carving out pockets of time for pretty much ANYthing other than my work and current projects has been hard to do. I even let my journal writing get away from me for a moment, which is a HUGE no-no... when mama doesn't write, mama gets bat-ass crazy. Such was the case recently, when things got all out of balance, and I knew instantly why and how to remedy the situation: "pick up your god-damned pen," I told myself. Doesn't matter how exhausted I am, how much earlier I have to set my alarm to see it through, or how often the blank page stares at me as I stare back at it, overwhelmed and not even sure where to begin... I just simply must do it. It truly is the one tool that has helped me stay sane, keep my life organized, and somehow, magically, keeps my emotions more balanced. I tell all my friends, "When you see me flippin' out on a regular basis, be sure to ask if I've been writing..."

I'm particularly high on writing this morning because I've just finished my sixth journal of the year. That brings happy tears to my eyes. I'm looking at them now, all stacked up on my bed, on top of each other. The tears come because it has truly been one of the most amazing years of my life, and as I look at their spines and pages, even closed, I know the stories that live within each of them. The songs. The poems. I cry tears of gratitude for the present moment, at this amazing time of my life where I am literally walking in the dream and destiny and purpose I have long known was mine, and had been waiting and praying and hoping for and trying so hard not to lose faith... and here it is! I cry tears of pride, pride in myself, looking at the journal on the top of the pile, whose title was simply "Begin." I took it at that difficult time in my life (a little over a year ago) as a sort of command: "Now you must begin Emily. This is your life. It is all up to you. What will you do?"

I started small: "I will write," I said. "I will follow the wheel of the year." "I will be easy on myself, for I have struggled long and hard, and it was a most difficult last year." And so I did. I was unemployed. My husband had left me. I was grieving the death of my father, the estrangement of my family. I had quit my band. I was in a new home. Everything was different. Everything had changed. Except writing. Writing had been there for me since I was eight years old, and first kept a journal. It had been many months - seven, maybe - since I had put pen to paper at that time. In the few years preceding, during my marriage, I didn't write much - I didn't feel comfortable in my morning ritual around my ex-husband. He had violated my privacy and read my pages on a few occasions, so I ceased my practice. We both suffered from it. But, with "Begin," I was in my own space, my own energy, and ready to reclaim my life.

"Begin" took me from a little before Winter Solstice, 2009 until Candlemas, 2010. At that time, I was in Mexico, my other home, with a group of amazing friends who were visiting with me for three weeks. Beloved friends. Friends that bring so much joy and love and patience. It was then I cracked open "Follow Your Bliss." She would carry me through til Spring Equinox, and on her cover were words like "dream, vision, imagine, create, begin, transform, expand." I took her directive as well, and in Playa (the land of my spirit), I allowed myself time to just enjoy life. To be in good company, sharing food, laying under the sun, swimming in crystalline waters, making music, and writing. Dreaming up plans of what I would do when I returned stateside. What did I want to do with my life? Well, I wanted to use my talents and passions. I wanted to create a life of work that involved music, or teaching, or spiritual transformation. I didn't bother with the details of exactly what that might be... just put it loosely out there, into the ethers, trusting that whatever was meant to be would be.

At Equinox, as the sap begins to run through the trees, I chose my new book: "You Can Fly When You Want To." Spring energy is so great for new projects, new habits, new disciplines. I was born just after the Equinox, an Aries, so new beginnings have always been a favorite and exciting time for me. Back from Mexico, refreshed and rejuvenated, I set out to explore new opportunities, even things I would never have considered in the past. I hit up craigslist, and responded to all kinds of ads - ads for singers, for models, for assistants. I auditioned for commercials, cover bands, and teaching gigs. I was going out a lot with friends, and to new social events I would have stressed over in the past - I had always felt great anxiety about going to places with new people, out of my element. I still had some anxiety about all the things I was trying, but I was determined to put myself out there, knowing that new blessings would only come from being tenacious and courageous. I adopted the motto "fake it til you make it." I would feign confidence, if need be, until I truly felt it inside. It's a good trick that really works. I recommend it to everyone.

At this point in the year, right around Beltane, I bought two new journals, and I wasn't sure which one had the right message for that particular time in life. In the end, I chose by the cover art, and "Sometimes Your Only Available Mode of Transportation Is a Leap of Faith" had imagery that echoed the previous book. It seemed the right choice. I had intended that this journal would span from Beltane to Solstice, but as the sap started rushing through the trees, so did my life switch into high gear. I was writing regularly, though maybe not as much. I was starring in a theater production, modeling for artists, recording new music I had written, was dating, was social butterflying all around these twin cities like the queen monarch herself! Before I knew it, Solstice had come and gone, and I was still in the same book, and still not sure how it's meaning pertained to my life.

Until my back went crooked. Right in the middle of summer, and all of my heyday and hullabaloo, I was smacked down in critical and severe pain, confined to my bed for six weeks or more. I needed surgery on my spine. My lease was up, and I had to pack and find a new place to live. I had no insurance, no job, no husband, no family, and the pain was so crippling that simply making it to the bathroom was a true voyage. But I had me some friends. I had me some family of friends that packed me up, cleaned my house, moved me in to a new place gifted me by an ex-boyfriend (Mr. Mean! who woulda thunk???), took me to hospitals and doctor appointments, and took care of me for weeks after my surgery. I couldn't walk, I couldn't drive, I needed great care, and they were there. Sometimes your only available mode of transportation is a leap of faith all right... and a little help from your friends.

Lammas time. The old journal wasn't full, but I needed a change... once I got the message, I was ready to move onto a new chapter: "The Future Belongs To Those Who Believe In the Beauty of Their Dreams." Time to get back on the page, jump back into life (carefully, however - I just had spinal surgery, for God's sake) and resume my path, my intentions and my goals. I was healing, I was in a new spot in an amazing neighborhood, I had taken on a roommate. I was beginning again. The most important thing was to heal, and to take it easy. So, instead of flitting about, I had folks coming over. Musicians bringing me songs to write to, friends coming for dinners, small parties here and there. I had taken on some new lovers, and rekindled old friendships.

It was getting close to Halloween, which meant only half a season until Solstice again... had I accomplished what I had set out to do? Not so much. I had accomplished a lot, oh yes, but unemployment would likely be up soon and though I had created some work to get me by, more was needed. But it had to fit within the guidelines I'd set: only work that suits my talents. From my surgery, I was about a half-season off track, I felt. Add to it, I was partying quite a bit... imbibing, celebrating, living life free of taboo - like the autumnal Devil card of the Tarot. Time to reel it in. I had some work to do!

At Hallows, my next book came: "Fearless." My Dad had called me by this name many times. Uncertain of what the future held, and feeling the weight of finances slipping fast, and no concrete prospects, I decided to go back to "fake it til you make it" mentality: I wouldn't waste any time or energy worrying. I had already learned that the Universe is aiding and supporting me every step of the way, so long as I'm willing to put in the work. So I would be Fearless, and charge ahead and snatch the pieces of my destiny at every twist and turn they appeared.

Mr. Mean pulled through again, offering me a job as Creative Director at his new club! A part-time gig paying more than I had ever made in my life until now. It was the perfect, ideal solution! Using my talents, with time left over to continue to pursue my other projects and dreams... this was more than a gift. This was some serious next-level shit.

But I couldn't stop there. I had this idea. Actually, I had this dream, a dream that began over a decade ago. I glanced at the calendar to see which day my 35th birthday would fall on in 2011... it happened to be a Friday. I had always wanted to have a grand show for a birthday celebration. I considered what my dream venue would be... the Varsity Theater. So, fearlessly, I called the owner and made an appointment to walk through the venue and pitch my show idea: my 35th birthday, featuring a retrospective of my past work and my debut cd-release party. He loved it. He gave me the date, and the venue, with no deposit or anything... confident that I was going to make this a success. The date was booked. It's on!

I gathered a team of producers, choreographers, videographers and photographers, light and sound and set designers - the whole deal. I had been working in this town for over a decade. Working for other people, on their dreams and their projects. Now was my turn, my time... and the response was overwhelming. Everyone wanted to be part. They all liked the idea. They all wanted to help see it through. The wheels were in motion... now, I just had to write a debut album!

I gathered music from several local producers and took off back to Mexico, with the intention of writing the songs. Mr. Mean had bought me a new Mac laptop for my job, and I got some simple gear to lay down tracks on Garage Band while there. I went for almost three weeks, and wrote seven songs. I rested, I partied, I lived blissfully and creatively... I had the time of my life. Mingling with djs and producers from all over the world, in town for the BPM electronic music festival. I had photo shoots. I made plans for a cd-release show there in April - I mean, why not? It's my second home, ater all, where my solo singing career started almost 15 years ago! Plus, I knew I'd want to come back soon, and would need a break after a few months of intense work back home. Fearlessly, I dreamed big, and am daily taking small steps to see it through.

So, I've been three weeks back, and tossed immediately into the frying pain of this abundance I manifested! Finding talent for and opening a club in a month; recording my first full-length cd; executive producing this spectacular show for the end of March; teaching 150+ kids each week between 3 schools; conducting 2 choirs... You see why it's been challenging to find moments to blog???

And here we are, at Candlemas tomorrow. I have my new book waiting for me. Her name? "Trust Yourself." During this busy, busy time, my writing will be key in staying on top of everything, releasing stress, keeping sane. To some degree, I'm still faking it - for I have many moments of doubt and insecurity and sheer panic at all that I've taken on... but I will follow the new directive, and trust myself, because the reality is: I have everything it takes to see this all through. I have worked hard, with clear intention and focus. I have acquired the skills needed, and the resources. I have assembled the right team of people, whom as I sit here typing this to you, are all out there working on my behalf! Do you know what a trip that is? Can you imagine how humbling that feels? Studios are being dialed in, promo kits are being drafted, LLCs are being established, tours are being planned, photo shoots are scheduled... and I'm sitting here in my bed, in my pjs, lookin' a mess... I cannot adequately describe to you what it feels like to be walking in your dream. But I can tell you, despite all the pressure and stress, I am smiling.

"Trust Yourself" should carry me through to Equinox, right before my birthday and my big show. I already have the journal that comes after. I knew she was the one the minute I saw her, and as I look at her now, it brings tears to my eyes:

"Your Wish Is Granted. Now Is the Time."