We can’t do it alone. If we were meant to, we’d all be living on our own, private island.

We live amongst others, we are a social creature, we form packs, bonds, families, circles, groups. We have friends, even when we don’t know it. We are surrounded by people we barely acknowledge, but really, really need.

This is the beauty of this life.

It’s the miniscule, everyday, the monotony. That’s where the miracles are, that’s where the holy instant is. It’s in that tired haze, that sweet exhaustion, when perceptions really shift.  I think it takes most of us to go to extremes to get back to basics. Silly as it is, we seem stupefied by the simplicity. At least I am. But that’s all it takes: be aware. be gracious. be alive in the moment.

I have a lot of experience with this, but even I forget from time to time. As a reminder, I keep a hand-painted sign over the door in my bedroom: Expect Miracles.

I don’t read it every day, most days I forget it’s there. But some days, those really hard days, I remember and I look up, and I say a little prayer of thanks and I truly believe miracles are waiting for me when I step through the door.

It’s like walking though a weightless, beaded, hippie curtain. The kind that tinkles and chimes when you brush through it. When I break the threshold, I imagine a great and wonderous light pouring over my shoulders, encompasing my entire body, empowering me, blessing me as I step though. It’s a moment of pure conscious creation.

That’s all it takes.

I need to look up more.

I have to remember my faith. It’s paramount in this life, paramount in the process of belief and creation. Faith is the very thing that leads us back to us, back to our creator, back to our ultimate root.

This is why I’m glad I don’t have to do this alone. I’m blessed to have a relationship that renews my faith in people, in love, in life and in the power that I have in creation.

I expect miracles. They are but an eventuality of all I do, think, say and believe.

But I’m not always. I let my bathroom sink area crowd up with makeup and brushes and bottles and ointments and perfumes until I have to clear a path just to brush my teeth. I’m busy during the week, and when I’m running to get out, I don’t see the clutter and confusion.

But when company comes a’calling – I see everything with new eyes. The ceiling fan is disgusting! That wall next to the stove is splattered! The fridge has fingerprints! Where did those scuffs on the floor come from?? Aaarrrrggghhh! And so, what begins as a simple “neating up” turns into a free for all.  A whirl of bleach, sponges, Fabuloso, dusters, Fabreeze, Windex, Comet … open the windows! I seriously don’t care if it’s 42 degrees outside!

And then, just when I start running out of steam, I take a look and realize … I’ve made one HELL OF A MESS. Of course I have to move ALL THE FURNITURE. Of course I have to vacuum twice, because NOW I have to steam clean the carpets … and the bedding must get washed, oh, and every blanket and towel in the house. Damn, I hate it when I miss one.

I must be the messiest cleaner in the entire world. And I certainly make WAY more work for myself than necessary. Nobody will care if the stove top shines or the windows gleam or the sheets are Downy fresh. But I do. It’s a small pleasure I get, the moment when everything is back in its place (however fleeting) and all is serene and clean and perfect.

It never stays that way. But, for those 20 minutes I’m in freaking love.

For we must eat, and to eat we must cook and to cook, we must drag 1001 ingredients from the fridge and spice cabinet. No matter how carefully I chop and saute, there is always a piece of onion on the floor. The stove top get splattered with olive oil, that pain in the ass roasting pan and rack must be cleaned again … arg.

It’s a never-ending process of making things clean. Or, at least, cleaner than they were.

I’m just glad I don’t have surprise guests who want to use my bathroom on a Wednesday. That would be embarrassing. So while I can, I’m going to try to keep up with the beast that is the mess of daily life. Or at least battle it on weekends.

Something tells me it’s a futile effort.

Don’t let it happen.

The Course tells us:

Reason does not attack, but takes the place of madness quietly, replacing madness if it be the will of the insane to listen to it. But the insane know not their will. For they believe they see the body, and let their madness tell them it is real. Reason would be incapable of this. And, if you would defend the body against your reason, you will not understand the body or yourself.  Ch. 21, section 7

I needed that, it’s a good reminder for me.

Sometimes I fall prey to words, words that challenge me to prove my mettle and how far I’ve come. As a writer, I look at it as a great opportunity to play with verbs and nouns and adjectives. But they, and my energy are wasted when they fall upon  a giant ego who can type just as fast as I.

It’s not a competition. Never was. That’s Reason. Reason can only replace madness if it is the will of the insane to listen to it.

Sometimes, in an effort to expound and enlighten, I can become entangled and entranced with the mysteries and impermeable shell of the ego. It’s tricky, that one.

I give up. I think sometimes, that’s all you can do.

Merry Christmas, Love!

It took me a while, but I’ve finally succumbed. I’ve let myself be loved the way I deserve. Finally.

I am adored. It’s not a bragging point, just a fact. I am no better than anyone else or more deserving of adoration. I simply allowed it happen, because I realized I really wanted it.

I adore Yamel. I love him from the tip of his beautiful, curly head to his furry, Hobbit feet  He is a miracle. And one that I celebrate and am thankful for everyday.

It’s not about fulfilling ego, it’s about acknowledgement and acceptance of the beauty within. It’s recognition.

In the strangest of times, I’ll look at Yamel and really SEE him in that moment. Makes my heart grow bigger and fonder and fuller. Every so often he catches me and says, “What’s WRONG with you?!” … I probably have a goofy expression on my face. Even if I try to describe in that moment what I’m feeling, I always fall short. So, I usually just smile and say “Nothing, dear. It’s all good.”

We don’t fight like we used to. Damn, did we have some doozies, too. I think the desire to communicate clearly has brought us to the couch to discuss issues instead of yelling about our fears. It’s been a huge help. Leaps and bounds have been made this year.

Lots more yet to do. It’s a constant process. It’ll never be finished. We’ll always work at it, and make it and us better than we were yesterday. But today, I am adored. And he is adored, and we are going to shine in adoration together.

It’s Christmas afterall, is there a better gift to give than Love?

I was bullied as a kid, and it freakin sucked. I was the sad child of divorced parents in a Catholic school (hello?), I had a recently recovered alcoholic Mother and I was the definition of socially awkward.  I had lots of problems, I was overweight, I had acne, I developed EARLY (read: 11), I was uncoordinated, I couldn’t speak to people right, I was just overall weird.

But aren’t we ALL at that age?

I just watched a youtube video of this wonderful kid, Jonah. Is that his name?  Throwing up handwritten flash cards to the camera telling his sad, sad story, while tears streamed down his face.  You can see it here:  http://youtu.be/tRXjqpfOnS0

I cried. I got it. I was there. I was him.

I did horrible things to myself at that age too, granted, I didn’t have to deal with the isolation of being a homosexual. But there were plenty, plenty of obstacles to overcome. So many! So many, in fact, I can’t even remember them all.

That’s the wonder of getting older – you lose a little bit of that sensitivity. Whether from learning hard lessons, or from lessons learning you – eventually, hopefully, we grow from those hard trials.

That poor boy showed his scars on camera. I wore long sleeves all year round. I cut myself too, a lot. Enough that if I had done it today, and anyone had caught me, I would’ve spent a lot of time in a padded cell. That’s the difference.  I didn’t tell.

I didn’t want anyone to save me. I really tried to commit suicide a number of times. Failed. Had to blot up the blood stains from the carpet, fearful. But, back then, angst was a secret. And really, it wasn’t all that long ago.

Instead of a camera, I cried into the stereo. I turned up the volume and wailed during the drum or bass solo. I did have good, large speakers. It was the Cobain age, angst was expected. And I had plenty of it.

But over time, it subsided. I learned I was not what all my bullies told me I was. I stood up, brushed myself off, and began to live as the person I knew I was.

What takes REAL guts is just being who you are. Even when they call you names, and try to push you down. But it only takes so many times for you to get pushed around until you realize, you’re not the kind of person who enjoys that. (who does??)

Patience. Patience. It will come. It gets better. In fact, it gets awesome.

Weeeeee!

I don’t know that it’s a major revelation or anything, but happiness is key.

Even if you have nothing, or even if you have everything: you gotta be happy with it.

Got no man, be happy.

Got no woman, be happy.

Got no money: be happy.

Got no hope: be freakin’ happy. ‘Cause that’s all you got.

Life sometimes tells us that we need these things to be happy, and I’m telling you it ain’t true.

All you need to be happy is happiness. And It only comes from you.

So give up the search, give up the desire, give up the endless longing. It’ll only bring you misery.

Accept what is. What you are. WHO you are. Love yourself. Love your habits. Love this crazy life.

That’s all you got. You are infinite. And when you let go of looking outside, you find it inside. It’s always been there.

It’s a matter of allowing IT to be what it IS.

Let it be, let it be.

Hope, dream, long, desire, crave, yearn. For sure.

But first, live. And be happy. Ain’t nobody gonna do it for ya.

If I know anything, I know that The Law of Attraction works. I seem to be unconvinced to it at times, because I forget – and it’s a tiresome lesson to learn over and over again.  I am by no means a negative person, but I get stuck in ruts just like everyone.  What I resist, persists. So, I give up.

I am wealthy, healthy and whole. Today is the best day of my life. I am blessed every moment, and every moment is an opportunity to share blessings. I have more than enough money for everything I need and want, and more money is on it’s way to me right now.

Sometimes, you just have to write it. Or say it. Think it. Know it.

Now, it’s time to live it. Here we go.

It’s that time of the month when money is oh, so very tight. Our fridge is bare, save for a bottle of ketchup and some leftover something I’m afraid to look at. But I count myself lucky. I consider myself blessed. I am one of the “Haves”.

I know we’ll fill the fridge back up, I know everything will get paid, in time. I know everything will be ok. And even when it’s a bit lean, and we have to stretch things a little further, I’m happy.

I go to sleep knowing I am loved. Fully, wholly, completely loved. I sleep sweetly knowing the love I give is bestowed perfectly, it’s accepted and reciprocated. Nothing is lost.

All this life stuff, work, bills, responsibility … it can be a big burden to bear. But today, for once, I’m not going to let it weigh on me. It’ll be there tomorrow (and the next day.) So what if I had to put gas and cat food on my credit card? It’s not ideal, but I’m mobile and cats are fed. You do what you gotta do, right?

The things that really matter, I am wealthy in. I have faith, I have love, I have peace and comfort and even a glass of wine. If that’s not rich, I don’t know what is.

Why do we hate when people tell us it’s best to …”play it safe”, “take it slow” and “patience is a virtue”? When all we want to do is jump in with both feet. And arms.

Why is it always the “fools“ who rush in? Don’t wise men and women know a good thing when they see it?

Perhaps whomever came up with these sayings were so smart, they decided to keep all the good stuff for themselves. Maybe all these “wise men” got together and thought it smarter to make all us “fools” doubt ourselves and keep all the spoils for them alone.

Maybe.

Or, maybe we’re all just a bunch of pussies. And we fear what we don’t know and don’t want to lose what we have. Don’t want to actually be blissfully happy for five amazing seconds of our insignificant little lives.

Hmmm, maybe.

Oh, courage, don’t leave us now.

Doesn’t it take everything to go out on a limb, and yet, it’s no effort at all?  Once were at the end, it’s like we were always there, it’s fluid, it’s perfect, it’s breathing in unison. And breathing is easy.

I have to say one thing: it takes real guts to do something you thought you would never be capable of doing. One would say it’s even courageous. I know I would.   But really, courage is just you letting go of what you thought were afraid of and grasping what you needed. What you wanted. What you so deserved.

And who can’t do that?  It’s one of our first instincts on this planet: grab at it, reach for it, touch it, have it.

Yes, and so we go backwards to go forwards. And again and again. And all over again.

It’s lovely, such dangerous loveliness.

Beware! You are powerful! Eeeeek!

This is what I get for watching reality TV. To be fair, I really like shows like the X Factor and American Idol, I think they showcase good talent that wouldn’t otherwise be in the public eye. (All except that Southern boy who won AI last year, he was just horrible, on so many levels.)

I just think it would be so neat to be able to belt out a tune and make people happy enough to clap, or to run my fingers over a piano and inspire a lyric or even a whole song, to be able to paint a masterpiece without even knowing it is one. To be so gifted that nobody could deny it, or look away.

When I was six I really liked to sing, especially any song from the Broadway show, Annie. I had every song memorized and me and my friends would spend our lunch time singing by ourselves on the playground. One day, a group of nuns had gathered at the window directly above us and were hanging out and applauding when we had finished. I was mortified as we became the center of attention. Kids we laughing, pointing, snickering.

Even worse, the teachers got together and thought it would be nice if we sang to the whole class. It was only me and a girl named Jennifer. I sang better than she did, I knew that, but I hated having everyone looking at me, watching, waiting. Knowing they were expecting something great made me choke and I muddled my way through. I think I blocked out the rest after that …. oh, yet another Catholic School trauma.

I never liked being the center of attention even if it was something I wanted. I never figured out how to resolve that.

Heck, I even dated a professional musician for almost 10 years, and he never heard me sing once. Not a hum, not a whistle, nothing. He begged to hear me sing, and that made my mouth close tighter than ever. Something about being watched and judged frightened me. But get me into the car with the radio blasting, and I’m a star. Put a beer in my hand around a piano and I’ll out sing your entire family. If nobody’s expecting it, I can surprise you. If you’re waiting on me, I can’t deliver. Guess that’s what separates me from the superstars. Oh yeah, that and actual talent.

I paint too. Everytime I put brush to board I wonder if what I’m doing is inspired or insipid or just plain stupid. I like color and texture and nothing I do has any real definition. I have to turn the canvas around and around after a few strokes before I find the right direction. But afterwards, I feel sated, happy. I feel release, even if isn’t  a Warhol or Basquiat, to me, it’s darn near perfection.

It’s the creation I like so much, the making something that wasn’t there before.

When I was very young, three, four, five, we had a piano in our house. It was my most favorite thing in the world, I recall spending hours at it. I would’ve slept under it if I was allowed.  I never had lessons, but my parents played and I loved that. The sound it made, the resonance, it moved me.

When I had time with it to myself, I invented my own melodies, my own music. I didn’t smash down on the keys like other kids would’ve, I tested them. I found sounds that went perfectly together. But I didn’t want to share it with anyone. The minute I was discovered, I would stop. Encouragement couldn’t entice me, it was something I wanted to be alone with, to have for myself. It was ruined when I knew someone was listening. That’s when I started being called “shy”.

I don’t know that I was shy, I just never got to the point when I was finished. If I had finished something, I wouldn’t have been shy with it. But the constant interruption drove me crazy and made me lose my focus. I’m still like that now. I’m not afraid to show off what I can do, as long as what I have to show is a finished piece.

Maybe I do have a lot of amazing talents, maybe I’m even better than I think I am. Maybe I just need time to finish one or two or three things and let them be heard … and get a piano … and more paint …