Never Fails

Uh huh…this is my girl Claudia…straight shootin’, hip slinging, love totin’, truth tellin’ realist. ❤️ Always respect. 😉

Destiny Called

​I think it’s funny how just when you think you’re getting what you want it’s like a million miles up in 50 feet to the left and they most difficult to attain

Meanwhile all the things you don’t want are right under your feet to trip all over.

Why life works like this I may die trying to make sense of it!

View original post

Advertisements

Internal Dialogue #1

Lately I’ve been feeling my personal/emotional worldview slipping from one kalidescope into another. Things I once knew with such certainty are now hovering on the fringe of doubt. And things I was absolutely positive would never be entertained by this seven dimensional mind, are springing into view lively and energetic.

In part, I am saddened by the loss of feelings and beliefs I’ve clutched close to my hearts core like a frayed and tattered lifeline. While old and definitely showing signs of age and wear, it has pushed me thru necessary conflict, always reliable and safe. And a constant companion for so long. Growing me, changing me, elvolving me and challenging me in unimaginable ways. A reliable, steadfast friend who seemed to have my best interest at heart. It’s a hard loss to comprehend.

I’m struggling.

And in part, I am excited to move into a new personal/emotional worldview because it means….

Hmm. 🤔

Nope. 

Still on the fence. 

Change does not always come easy to me.

To be continued…😶

Throwaway Girlfriend

My current partner is very good at a lot of things, but one thing in particular is randomly pointing out just how easily my ex partner “kicked me to the curb” and “just threw me away“. Says she would never do that. Says that’s not what people do when they love each-other.

So…

Recently, and totally at my instigation and obvious unhappiness here in Barrie, we’ve been looking into moving to southern, less wintry parts of Ontario. We even considered Vancouver as Kate has family there, a new grandson she hasn’t met, and as everyone keeps telling me, “You’ll LOVE it there!” But, for reasons too numerous to mention, the Universe has clearly said NO.

Grumble.

Last week we had a talk about how few opportunities there are for me to do pretty much anything here in Barrie. It’s so spread out. You need to drive everywhere to get anywhere. I don’t drive. And the transit system here is merely a suggestion.

Winter is coming and the idea of being buried under 6 feet of snow for 5 months is starting to fucking stress me out.

It’s a thing.

During this conversation, I mentioned Toronto and it’s attributes. I could see she was getting agitated. Again. We’ve had this talk before. What can I say? Toronto is my home and will always be my home. I was born there. Have lived 3/4 of my life there. And I miss it. I have family, friends and familiarity there. And to be fair, I gave this Barrie-in-the-fucking-snow-belt thing a go. For three…going on four winters now. It just isn’t for me!

I want out.

She, on the other hand, is a small town girl and has lived much of her life here and in Alberta. She’s used to the long ass winters and mountains of snow. And hates the rush and noise and negative energy of the big city. Any big city. Especially Toronto. And I get it. I’m reaching the point in my life where I’m not super thrilled with the idea of fast-paced-big-city living either. But I also believe that wherever you live on this beautiful planet, YOU get to choose the pace of your life.

I don’t want the city rush and noise and negative energy back in my life, but I do want the feeling of connection. The feeling that I am a part of something. I don’t have that in Barrie. But I do have that in Toronto.

I also have independence.

Barrie has starved me socially. Isolated me physically. Nearly broken me spiritually. And I have to rely on Kate to take me everywhere and anywhere. A thing I am soooo not used to at all!

I hate it here.

And have, pretty much, from the moment I arrived.

She knows this.

Yet, last week when I mentioned Toronto for the umpteenth time, and all that it potentially has to offer, not just for me, but for her as well, she simply said, “Trish. If you need to go back to Toronto, then go.”

I gave her a look which couldn’t have said more clearly, “Reeeaaally???”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I have no desire to move back to Toronto.”

And that was that.

I knew this already. We’ve had this conversation before.

But I think what really surprised me this time around was the finality of her words. I really heard them. Maybe for the first time. She has said them to me before, but this time something rang different. Deeper. Truer. No room for negotiation. Whatsoever.

She said, “Trish. If you need to go back to Toronto, then go.”

But I heard, “I’ll love you as long as you stay here with me. Wherever here happens to be. But I will not love you in Toronto. If you need to go there, you’re on your own. Bye bye.”

And as I stood in the doorway watching her lying in bed, our eyes met in what felt like an unwavering challenge. A gauntlet had been thrown.

I mentally picked up the glove and studied it carefully.

Every scratch and scar and bump and bruise. The ragged rips neatly stitched back together. The leathery palm worn thin in places from endless emotional swordplay. The fingers soft enough for a lovers touch, but sharp in the slap of outrage. Yet the hidden lining remained bright and colorful, cleverly concealing the darkened stains of tearful betrayals.

I finally understood.

Throwaway girlfriend?

Fuck that shit.

Never. Ever. Again.

I am worth so much more than that.

 

 

Moon Love

Since Rhonda’s death, and subsequent Celebration of Life, when I hear friends who I myself introduced to her, and who barely knew her, laugh and talk of her last few years, I just want to scream.

When they speak of the bond they shared over music, conversation and coming out, I am overwhelmed with such a raging sense of betrayal, broken trust and abandonment that the loss of my friend itself has become almost secondary.

Almost.

In my woundedness I fell into a place of childlike pain and reflection. Of helplessness and lonesomeness. Lost in despair of broken trust and the pain of abandonment. I cried so hard and so deep and felt such pain that the bowels of heaven and earth must have shifted in empathy to make room for more of my tears.

And I started talking to the moon. Again.

Then I found this beautiful read.

An imagery that captured my soul and spoke to my 4 year old self. Funny how stuff just shows up when your heart needs it most. It’s not luck, or magic or coincidence. It’s the Universe at work with the law of attraction.

In reading Jessica’s story, which found me online, I recognized that I too have talked to the moon since childhood. Private conversations that honor my deepest feelings. Existing otherwise silent on a plane buried deep within my 4 year olds recognition of being unloved and unwanted. It is a hurt that has no remedy. No platitude. No fix. Buried deep in my psyche, entrenched by the magnificent volume of sheer repetition.

I don’t know if I can ever heal this wound. It bleeds with such little provocation. So deep and raw is the source.

My friend, my truest sister, left me alone to suffer a cruel punishment for a crime I didn’t commit but one I will pay for whenever I think of her now. Hear her name. Or learn of another life experience I should have shared with her. The suffering is acute. The questions endless. The pain familiar. The hurt stings my eyes in overflow.

It is not merely a jealousy that others were privy to her company the last few months of her life and I was not. It is the deeper, unbearable knowing that I was not wanted.

And I have nowhere to put that.

Nowhere at all.

So, it hangs in the quiet luminescence of conversation with the moon.

moon_love_1

I just found and fell in love with the mind of Stella! ❤️

View story at Medium.com

She just resonated BIG time today. All week has been a struggle with one thing or another blog related. Ugh. I think she might have a wee drinking problem lol, but otherwise I love what she’s written in this post.

Setting Of Intentions

Last week on The Buddha,  I wrote this in a puff of deflated, uninspired breath.

Well, This Week Kinda Sucked

Finding Stella J. McKenna today on Medium was kismet.

It’s a great post!

Reminds me not to take myself so seriously. And we ALL need a reminder of that sometimes.

See ya soon!

Buddhism. Why Not? Pt 1

FYI – Every now and then I post something from my other blog here. It’s a one way ticket. I don’t post this stuff there. So, yeah. You can feel kinda special lol, cuz you are!


page_letters-COMINGOUTdidn’t grow up with Jesus. Or Mary. Or Joseph. Steepled churches, stained glass windows and the Bible were all kind of a mystery to me when I was a kid. I remember attending a black Baptist church when I was about 3.  A small, white, one-roomed building with deep mahogany pews and sunlit walls. It was where the colored congregated every Sunday to listen to The Preacher.

Shiny, brown-skinned folk strutted spectacular in their Sunday best and exotic plumage. A rare form of peacock indeed. I must have been fostered temporarily with God-fearing folk who felt the need to introduce me to the Lord, hence my memory of this Baptist church. I don’t remember ever meeting him though. What I do remember is being terrified by the wailing and moaning and fainting in the presence of Praise-Him-Hallelujah.

And the singing was kinda cool.

To be honest, Religion kinda scares me.

The idea of some omnipotent, wrathful, White GOD living in the sky who, if displeased by your behavior, will strike you down and condemn you to burn in the everlasting bowels of Hell ~ FOREVER ~ is just a little friggin terrifying to me. And truly horrific things have been done in the name of Religion since the beginning of time. But Religion is way too big a topic for this little blog, and it’s not my intention to offend or discriminate anyone or their belief system.

So, before I go on, I have to qualify that when I refer to Religion in this post, I am referring to Christianity.

I’m Canadian. I live in Canada. Love my country! And in Canada, Christianity is the largest religion. We don’t really have an official religion because we totally support the worldview that one religion is not the sole and exclusive source of Truth. We’re very open-minded about this sort of stuff and I’m down with that. Our right to choice of religious belief is a huge part of our political culture and makes me proud to be part of such a socially progressive nation. I think that’s why so many folks love us. And want to be us. Yay, Canada! We is diversified. 🙂

Having said that, Christians represent 67.3% of the population, with the Catholic Church having the most faithful attendees. Interestingly enough, according to the 2011 Census, (information about religion is only collected once every 10 years), Islam is the second largest religion in Canada, practiced by 3.2% of the population.

I think I’m a little surprised by that statistic.

But, somewhere in between the Christians and Muslims living in Canada, 23.9% of our total population has NO Religion at all. 

And this two-part post is sorta-kinda-loosely for those people.

The 23.9%.

Of which I am most definitely ONE.


my_story.png

As a brown child growing up in middle-class, white suburbia, I was faced with reactions to my difference. A lot. They were thinly veiled beneath civility and politeness. But they were there just the same. By the time I was 7 and officially adopted, I had developed a not-so-fragile thicker skin. Curious stares no longer affected me. As much.

We didn’t have a lot of religious overtones in our house. My adoptive Mother was Armenian and her loosely termed religious bent was Presbyterian. My Dad is Welch and at some point adopted the Bahá’í Faith; a teaching of the essential worth of all religions, and the unity and equality of all people. Mom kinda poo-pooed his choice of Religion, but I don’t think she really cared one way or another. Religion was the least of their differences. She may not have been big on Religion, but I do remember going to Sunday School in her Presbyterian church.

Sunday School was very confusing to me.

All the beautiful, colorful illustrations in the Children’s Bible Storybooks depicted white angels, a white God, and a white Jesus. Admittedly, he was a little tanned. 😉 And all the children gathered around Jesus on those pages? Yeah, they were all white too. Apparently, brown children didn’t exist when Jesus walked the earth.

Without a physically identifiable biblical figure or any sweet, angelic-looking brown-skinned children in the storybooks, I was lost in a sea of Whiteness. I could not make any spiritual connection. Once I asked my Sunday School teacher why no-one in the stories looked like me. She didn’t really have an answer. Not one that satisfied me enough to make me feel included and deserving of God’s Love.

How friggin sad is that?

It was the late 60’s. Civil movements and equality were definitely on the rise. Protests against wars were being staged. Causes and reasons were abundant for every situation. The world was changing in powerful ways. But in Small-Town-Anywhere, Canada, no-one had an answer for why there were no brown children in the Children’s Bible Storybooks.

Sunday School quickly became just another place where my difference was obvious. Where my Not Enough-Ness took root. Where I didn’t really belong. I was the only brown kid in my Sunday School, in my classroom,  in my neighborhood, and in my family. Everyone could see that I was different. And I could see them seeing my difference. Good Christian parents pushing down the pointing fingers of their Good Christian children or shushing them if they were too inquisitively loud about my difference. It didn’t matter that in my home, skin color was of no concern.

The world judged.

After services, everyone gathered for a few minutes in front of the church so the adults could say their Hello’s and How Are You’s. Share news, invites and quietly judge each-other. My Mom was a terrible gossip and she reveled in pointing out the hypocrisy of these God-fearing people. She really had little use for people in general.

The kids would run around, tagging, laughing and generally blowing off whatever do-good thing they had learned that morning. I usually stood by myself. Close to Mom. It was awkward. None of those kids were neighbors or friends. I wasn’t a part of the click. One Sunday, as I waited patiently for Mom to stop chatting, this little girl about 5 years old ~ me being a grown up 8 years old ~ walked up to me and without a word, pushed her finger into my cheek, and dragged it down my face. Then she looked at her finger in surprise.

She thought my brown would rub off.

Yeah.

That was pretty much the last day I formally attended church.

The following weekend, my Mom gave me a choice.

I chose to stop attending Sunday School.


Part 2 ~ Next Tuesday. At The Buddha Neuron.  If you like this, check it out! 🙂

Till then…

OWN YOURSELF!

ACCEPT, EMBRACE & LOVE

EVERYTHING THAT MAKES YOU YOU!

And Namaste your ASS off!

emoji_siggy-COMINGOUT