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.

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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.


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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!

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Photo Inspired #1

Contextual

The words

Are written

Unspoken.

Etched deep

In every curve

And shadow

Of my body.

Asleep.

And awake.

Inside.

And out.

Awaiting a reverent discourse.

Can you read me?

Feel me?

Comprehend

These words

You can’t hear me saying?

Trapped in the silence

A prisoner of my skin?

The need is barely restrained.

Exhausted

Music is back. Yay!

I’m so glad.

Means life inside me is stirring again.

It’s so much a part of who I am.

And it’s been missing for over a month now.

Discovered a new-to-me artist last week.

Tyra B.  Tyra B.  Tyra B.  Tyra B.  Tyra B

Former Girl. Now Boi.

Love her story. Her vibe. And the music she’s producing.

Fun. Sexy. Real.

Doing her thing. 31. Proud. And Finally Out.

A subject close to my heart with the death of my friend.

Today an older song came on while I was cleaning.

And it stopped me in my tracks.

I actually had to sit down and play it again.

And then again.

Blown away how the lyrics represented a moment in my life.

So perfectly.

And cut into me.

So deeply.

I cried.

Silly tears of a sentimental, fractured heart.

Maybe in acknowledgement.

The final reckoning of my unrelenting denial.

Complete.

I remember when she said this exact thing to me.

That she was Exhausted.

I remember how my heart broke.

Because I understood.

And knew she was never really coming back.

It hurt so much then. And it still hurts now.

Yeah…

After all this time.

I am endlessly surprised by the tenacity of this Love.

How it sneaks up on me in moments of unsuspect.

Stimulating memory of touch and kiss and feelings.

It’s unfair!

I don’t want to be that woman.

Stuck in that story.

Of a Life that no longer exists.

It doesn’t matter that I recognize the truth in these lyrics.

That’s the very reason they resonate so deep.

In my heart. In my mind.

In the sensitive curvature of my skin.

It doesn’t matter that it was a lifetime ago.

And yet.

Just the blink of an eye.

It doesn’t matter that I held fast to the belief.

That when you love as much as I loved her.

You stay.

Because she taught me…

Otherwise.

Every line in this song paints our ending.

From the first to the last.

It’s crazy.

But it’s true.

The tears I wipe away are the proof.

For Fuck Sakes.

Fast Foward.

Next song please!