Feet in the dirt, right hand open up

Blow out the flame, drink from the cup

‘Cloak me in protection, cover me in light

Tá mé slán Tá mé slán Tá mé slán’

Light the flame, left hand open down

Take a deep breath, sit on the ground

‘Cloak me in protection, cover me in light

Tá mé slán Tá mé slán Tá mé slán’

Up on your feet, let the moon in your eyes

Protected you are, always be wise

…..

Tools:

Candle, one per person, Not unused.

Cup, one per person, cannot be plastic.

Clear view of the moon.

Earth with exposed grass or dirt.

Source of fire.

An open mind.

She is blue

He is gold

He is loud

She is told

She is watching

He is not

He’s been celebrated

She’s been taught

When it comes to a task at hand- I so strongly believe this that it has become a moral- it should be done to the best of the person’s ability, the first time.

When my kids do a task, and I can tell it’s half-assed, I come undone mentally. I have absolutely made the mistake of raising my voice and shaming them for the crappy attempt. I then apologize to them and feel like the worst human in the world. SO, that approach is no good. I have also made the mistake of just doing it correctly myself. What is that teaching them? At best it is teaching them that someone else will pick up the slack? At worst it’s teaching them I think they’re incapable? And of course, yes, I have gone with them to the task and calmly spoke to them about the importance of doing the best we can or communicating if we need help, time, or a break. That just never seems to stick. In one ear, out the other, and on the floor in a pile. Probably sticky.

Growing up, my best friend’s mom was so laid back. Her daughter’s would do their chores, and she would be happy with whatever they did. That was not my experience at any of my houses growing up. You did the job correctly, or you heard about  it. It seems I cared about the “hearing about it” as a kid, and my kids don’t. Maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe I’m raising kids that won’t be as consumed by how many spots are on the kitchen counter. Or maybe I’m raising hoarders. Do any of us know until the kid is a fully cooked adult? Maybe we don’t even know then. I used to keep a very, very clean house. Now that I’m so severely out numbered– I just cry in my own head multiple times a day.

I just want to live in a very clean and tidy home, and raise humans who are clean and tidy, too. I know that’s a big ask. Kids are gorgeous little messes.

My husband has gotten a smidgen better over the years, but has more shit now than he’s ever had before. He’s a hoarder at heart. We need a duplex.

Many laundromats have window chalk drawings or large window stickers depicting bubbles. I am almost certain that it’s for this reason that my daughter has always called laundromats, “The Bubble Shoppe.” She, of course, doesn’t spell it out, but the way she says it always makes me imagine it’s spelled that way.

The bubble shoppe is a lesson in patience and being okay with an unknown outcome. That’s very, very uncomfortable for me. In my perfect world, there would be machines you can just walk in and use, BUT, there would also be machines, and carts, you can reserve online and punch in a code to unlock when you arrive.

The entire time I wait for my loads, there is a constant annoying static playing in my head, that also makes me a little nauseous: What if the machine you like isn’t available today? What if there are no machines available? What if everyone is hoarding all the carts and tables? You need a cart for all those sheets. What are you going to do with too many wet sheets for your arms? What if there is no dryer available?

It’s exhausting. But also probably good for me.

The Bubble Shoppe, a place for my anxiety to flourish.

I guess she’s a slow learner.

A slow page turner.

A benefit of doubt finder.

A wisher of people that were kinder.

An idiot who knows how she’s treated.

A human who often feels depleted.

Always wants to do something nice.

Won’t take her own advice.

Understands that loved, she’s not.

But, appreciative for all she’s got.

(Draft 1)

Sometimes I get so good at taking my Lexapro everyday

that

my clit dies

How do you soothe a chaos that doesn’t know it’s there

I’ve been told what’s been done is too deep to repair

But I’ve made this bed and now I’m rotting in it

I’ve made this bed in such a way no one will forget it

How do you calm a fear that has every right to rage

It’s like taming the beast but making it still live in the cage

Sometimes the bars look so thin I think that I could break them

But there’s monster’s on the outside too and I’m not sure I’m strong enough to take them

So I’ll whisper to the chaos, sing it lullaby

I’ll beg for it’s forgiveness, just to get me by

If you see my four post bed out on the curb side of the street

Just know I did my best, but I couldn’t take the heat

The choas planted in my heart did not save to my memory

The angst and the sadness it caused just played on repeat

For reasons I was told, but didn’t understand

For pain that was caused, why is it always a man?

I was trained to feel the pain, I was raised to taste the anger

I was forced to go between, and I had no fucking anchor

I clung to whatever felt like a love, a love that wouldn’t leave me

That forced my hand to make decisions, about things that I was too young to see

And now here I am, with all the understanding

And the world is sometimes caving in, but I know how to hover with no landing

Everything I didn’t know, shaped who I am today

Everything I didn’t know, and what I had to pay

(A work in progress)

Did you know that before men figured out that it was their sperm impregnating us, they worshiped us and bathed in our menstrual blood?

Did you know that patriarchy is biologically unnatural?

Fuck this.

Silence is so very loud in the ears of those who need you to speak!

Neutrality is so very violent in the hearts of those who need you to love!

Keeping the peace can only keep peace for those who already have it!

That’s why I say something.