The Language of Possessives

“He’s his boyfriend, not yours, that’s not my problem, he’s a part of our family now, I’m so proud of my country, get off their lawn!” All too familiar refrains.

What if we dropped possessives from our language? Imagine the consequences of not delineating where I begin and you end? Imagine words that didn’t splinter like serpent tongues. Imagine the evaporation of fear when the mine, yours, theirs goes away.

It is almost impossible to contemplate such a world. And it seems crazy to even articulate such a fanciful idea. Yet, in fact, it is rather insane thinking that there is a division where no such division actually exists. That we actually own pieces of the earth, that we can rightfully horde water resources and sell them off to others, that we want to keep certain people out of our so-called country.

Possessives cause pain and more often than not spring forth from a bottomless well of fear. Our thirst cannot be quenched in endless pursuit of… A hopscotch skip, leap and jump from person to place to thing to person, place and thing over and over. Buddhism speaks of attachment and encourages its practitioners to move beyond this way of life as much as possible. To possess is not the same as oneness; resist the psychological, emotional, physical over-dependence on what cannot be owned. Far easier said than done.

In our culture, this suggestion may seem extremely radical. It is built into our very consumerist structure that our worth is directly tied to possession. The more the better, the better the quality, appearance and so forth, all the better still. This goes far beyond goods. It is the house we can or can’t buy, it’s the husband we must get and keep at all costs, it’s the clique we’re in and so-and-so isn’t, it’s the brand of clothes that we absolutely must have.

I have yet to research languages that don’t have or commonly use possessive terms, yet I suspect they are far more communal.

I challenge myself to question my own possessive tendencies in regard to friendships. Out of fear of rejection, loss I cling tighter. I struggle to belong anywhere. My social skills make it difficult for me to engage and/or draw others toward me. Yet, I know that this worry causes me more suffering than is necessary. I very much wish to let go of expectation. Release exclusion and envy into the wind to be blown gently beyond reach.

I wish to free myself, more and more from the bondage of ‘to have and to hold’, knowing this state cannot be eternal.letting-go

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Test, Test…

Nothing to see here…just checking to if I’m able to fix the connection issue with Facebook…be back sometime this week for actual writing!

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Blue, The Absence

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Unyou
Ever unseen blue.

Blue’d my eyes and sea dreams

you

ribbon wrap’d my hair and swallow-choke’d me blue.

wish’d for blue

curls, my deeper veins

Entangle you

into me
separate together tied

Blue.

code, you and me,true, want to unknow old is new, will not undo. BLUE……

Wrap’d in

dappl’d

sheet,

blood born true blue blood blue,

you.

Posted in All You Need is Love, Love, Childish Stories for Adults, Pens Uninterrupted: Workshopping Scribbles and Such, Relation Ships, Sink or Float | Leave a comment

Slamm’d: A 25 Second Poem on my I-Phone in Transit

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Real e-STATE
men
Carving culture into
Wasteland
Condos condos twined and twinned again
and a-GAIN
Serious sameness breeds and bleeds
“Safety” from the
Rundown and outs

*This is one of my first poems in a long longity long while. I was on the #20 bus, in front of the abandoned Waldorf on Hastings, and I felt it leap out of my fingers into my notes on the I-phone. Frustration!

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Spirit Gardening–(Here I AM–again)

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The compulsion to explain my absence–yet again!!– is upon me like the rash pimpling and prickling my rear end. I will “tell-all” at a later date perhaps, just not in this post. I have many a started and stopped postlette hanging about in my drafts. Months of them, in fact. Tremendous, terrible layers of hostile and disappointed ogres, stacked one atop the other, huffing, puffing, and grumbling. They are trapped in muffled congress, surrounded by seemingly disheartened, disinterested wolves (and all sorts of other dis and non-dis creatures they do not even know about); needless to say, they are afraid to move about, despite the lethargy of the wolves, lest the hunters awaken from their stupor and gobble up the plump ogres instantaneously.

So instead of feasting upon the festering,fabled characters, join me here, in this moment, for a skip and hop through the stubborn keyboard forest. Twirl festively with me in the ankle-deep puddles of possibility–let’s frolic about together for a change of pace. I reserve the right to celebrate this “in the moment” nowness of getting out of bed and the house to an actual destination and event.

I am currently in a delightful land called “Suite Genius”. It is a spacious studio on 3rd Avenue, between Pine and Burrard Streets in my mountainous, oceanous hometown of Vancouver. I say hometown, because it is my chosen one. It is my writer self that brought me here. As a result, it is where my best work has crawled out from beneath and nestled down into the winter’s moss and ferns, under trees so large they seem enchanted. It is here, where the ancient mountains call my eyes up, up and away, even on my worst of days. Without moving, I can travel into a wild world filled with songed stories, whistled by the wind, and the many wooded animals.

It is my place of deep downing, and nearly drowning. It is a place of a medicated psychiatric overnight surrounded by hospital bedded inmates, tagged and cordoned off. It is a place of discharge-ing into the fresh aired start agains. It is a place where raindrops and tear drops are one in the same–where I am gray and green, dead and alive. It is a place of alchemy and swirling wounds and healing leap-frog games. It is a place of youth reborn, again and again–where my little self can dig down in the dirt and revel in the mucky fear and freedom. It is a place to un-cocoon, where the winter body can unfurl into its butterfly mind, it’s ever present spirit, winged across the universe. It is a place tenacious and deep,steeped in a mysterious, unknowing wisdom.

I am surrounded by light and high ceilings. I am connected to earth through this raw wood table, a felled tree that holds up my laptop. I am joined together with 12 other writers for an all-day writing retreat in the city, and it feels utterly sparkly.

I do not know what I am going to write all day and I certainly do not expect brilliance to spring forth from my ruddy and unkempt fingernails. That is quite fine. It is a stupendous event, monumental in truth, that I am even here–that I did not excuse myself for a second time from such a gathering. It is a triumph that I did not, for the millionth time, climb beneath my quilted guilt. I did not succumb to the worst of the incessant whines and wails inside my brain box: “Why aren’t you writing, you lazzzzy little fraud? You’re not a writer, you’re not creative, mother fucker! You’re a sssssimpering little liar(this side of me is like the proverbial snake in the grass).

This brain, despite what it may seem, is usually not so malevolent sounding. “Evil” maniacs cackling “Mwah ha ha!!” and triangling their fingers into diabolical steeples tend to dance about in midnight circles. This type of darkness is comically over the top. More often than not, the chatter is like the dullest, most monotonous university professor/priest/pastor/public speaker type that can be fathomed.

But today, for this time, there are other sounds that kindly embrace all possible viewpoints and gently ask the nattering voices to help out and/or quiet down, as it is time for reflective collection.

Thank you for the time, thank you for the consideration, thank you for seeing eyes that really see, thank you for wading through the weeds and carefully extricating their roots, thank you.

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In Absence

There is something very beautiful about disappearing into the clouds– camouflaged well enough to allow you to move through life seeing more than most and being seen less by many.

As with all blessings, there are curses. I wonder when people bump me on the street or walk directly at me like I’m not there if I am not–they can’t see me because I’m not real. Is my energy level so low that my vibrations can only create a dissipated cloud of mist that can be readily drifted through? Can I be so easily breathed in and exhaled?

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To be solid, though, is an illusion. We are in constant motion, even as we imagine ourselves to be in one place.

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For Crying Out Loud: The Rebel Weep

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mancry

womancry

As I sat in 1 of 8 La-Z-Boy recliners, I heard light laughter from across the room. Only a moment or 2 later, I felt the inhalation of breath, the sensation of which I am so familiar; the borderline of cry.

Within moments, the woman in the chair was sobbing. I do not know about what, as in our acupuncture sessions we whisper our troubles to our caregiver, and she carefully pokes the needled treatment into our skin. It is a vulnerable position, prone in chairs, pinned down, with possibly up to 7 strangers encircling the room around you.

We all lay still, blanketed and as quiet as possible. I am usually quite alert as I do not relax or rest well, in public or private places. I was already vibrating with the sound of the woman who snores during every session. And then the tears began, directly across from me.

At first, I felt my body further tighten. The sound startled me, and my organs, muscles, skin reacted, rejecting the sound, not wishing to hear or feel it. Without thought, I, of all people, pulled back from the sound of someone else’s sorrow.

I say I, of all people, because I have and will continue to be overcome by veritable tsunamis. I will quietly mist, I will explode into torrential storms. I know this, because after 41 years of life, nothing and no one has been able to undo my sensitivity and shame me into tearlessness. When I am in pain, I cry. I will also cry in great joy, but I am more familiar with the other side.

My gut reaction, my tension arose, but the fear, the wish to get away disappeared. I found myself welling up, and though she could not hear me I quietly said, “I am sorry for your sorrow.” I imagined myself hugging her. I felt our connection.

It reminded me of a few moments where I overcame my awkward desire to disconnect from a situation, because I didn’t know what to do for someone in evident sadness.

I had just finished a job interview and was waiting for the bus. A woman came up to stand at the stop, under the shelter. She was turned a little away from me. She could not contain herself. She was weeping. I stood stiffly for a moment. “What do I do? What can I do?” I had that same instinct to get away from her, to let her cry privately so she wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. But whose discomfort was I really considering?

I decided that I would say something. Short and simple. “Are you o.k.?”

She didn’t speak English very well, but she managed to say that she was alright (quite evidently not the case, but as we have been taught, it doesn’t matter what the truth may be, we must buck up and put on that “brave” front if only in words). She continued to sob.I felt like I had to do more. I didn’t want to disrespect her and invade her space, but something compelled me to put my hand on her shoulder. I could feel her tense up a bit as her shoulder arched,and she pulled away, just a bit. But she didn’t say anything and she didn’t slap my hand away, so we stood there awkwardly, 2 women, 2 humans huddled at a bus stop–strangers connected in her despair. I wanted her to have that space. I wanted her to feel safe, even for a moment, to let go. And I could feel her relax as her breathing calmed.

In this culture, we consider deep feeling problematic. As the author, Miriam Greenspan explains so well, we are emotion phobic. We see sadness as weak at best and pathological at worst. We reject people in pain in a multitude of ways. And in whatever way we have rejected them, we inevitably add to their hurt. How this hurt manifests is as varied as snow flakes.

But I say, to weep openly is an act of bravery.

To refuse to contain the pain is a rebel’s cry in our society.

If we cried more, we’d hurt less.

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