take the boxes down: a weekly practice in writing and revealing truth


every thursday i scramble to finish my day, tying together the ends of appointments and projects, feeding the dog and cats, grabbing my computer and jar of water. hustling always to scoot in under the line, almost but not quite on time to land in my seat in a circle of cushions and chairs, amidst smiles and screens, papers and pens. writers group. 

a weekly ritual essential to my soul.  a safe haven of creative alchemy, a place to set the voice free, a playground of surprise and discovery. each week prompted by well planned invitations to walk the halls of creativity and land in the perfect seat to open, to share, to unwind the stories that live inside and go on their magic carpet ride. 

some weeks words flow with ease, pouring out with power, ready to be heard. other times there's conflict and juxtaposition and you don't know how to begin or where it will end. other nights every things on. vibing, humming, jiving a currency of energy that shapes lyrics and rhythms through words in time taking you to places where everything rhymes in that just right way and you know each breath is in just the right place.  

this territory is rich. it takes me places. it turns me on. it reminds me of who i am. it helps bring me home. i write and i remember. i write and i am whole. even in all that i've forgotten, i write and memory flows. 

we write and read and listen. writing our stories, reading our truths, receiving the wisdom of witnessing. voices get oiled, loosened with sharing they take us deeper into sensational stories of pleasure and pain. our own fire sparked by the genius of vulnerability, the brilliance of authenticity, the soul fire desire to share, to move, to inspire. we hold space for each other to be who we are, to discover who we are, to recover who we are. this space is soul medicine. each artist a gift. 

it turns me on. the fire stoked. the blaze gets hot and I know, i'm here to speak to write to share about how much i care. about what it means to be human. about how to heal the world. i taste the words of others and i'm touched. moved. inspired. 

...book of my other life. ...collecting dreamtime. ...most of myself being given to people i will never see again. ...a haven for wayward words. ...leaving ourselves open to ourselves. ...candles and orchids. ...the climb is in the morning. ...god says thank you for seeing me. ...feel the answer.  
...god is talking.  ...seize the moment. 

I savor them the way others savor a five course meal. this is the kind of nourishment i hunger for. vulnerability, heart, truth. strip away trying and rest into receiving the being that happens when we allow grace to flow through. i write and read and listen and am fed. 

tonight i happened to linger longer, writer after writer slowly rolling out the door. those of us left caught on dream catchers and full moons hung on walls. we talked art and health, vulnerability and creativity. we wove 'round realities that hurt to feel, that hurt to see. we talked about next steps for navigating this crazy world. leaning into the power of voice the hunger to heal, the taste of words that pour out, always pouring out in our talking, our writing our receiving. each sentence a log on the fire, fueling inspiration, propelling more creation. 

and in it all the hungry soul with so much more to do, to be, to share. we wouldn't dare censor now, shut down now, close shop now, walk away now. it's only just beginning. i'm finally breathing life into the fire. learning how to fan the flames and propel purpose forward. i feel this voice getting louder and i taste the desire to be unleashed, to step up and out and in, always deeper in so i can increase the light, release the light, and be the light i already, and always am. a beacon in the bitterness of an over compartmentalized world. 

the personal is political when money hungry agendas put rules on food and social injustice is an ever maddening case of heartbreak when you see hate and feel the hurt and taste hopeless and want to hide. words slicing raw truths pointing to the fact that you could die. today. for being of color, for saying the wrong thing, for being queer in an myriad ways. all the tiny boxes we've worked so hard to put everything in stacking higher and higher on out of reach shelves. and we are suffocating, squeezing off our life force, killing our discourse, perpetuating order while losing the heart of what's essential. 

we don't want to feel. we don't want to hear. we don't want to know. keep it in the tiny box, tucked on a shelf, way up high, out of sight so i don't have to be bothered and i can keep pointing the finger while frantically following the system, hungry for money while cursing the kings. making our selves sick in the relentless drive uphill unending. 

and i feel my skin rise, a flush of heat, an aura of sound vibrating through me. a rumble, a roar. 

the system is BROKEN.

the system is broken. 

a sobering truth that slaps us awake, again and again and again and we keep turning the cheek wishing we were more than a two face so we could avoid the sting of it by turning away from it again and again and again.  a hallowed dance in an overcrowded dance hall where the DJ's playing denial. 

pull every last box from the shelf and break them open on the ground. take a look at who you are, what you've decided to be true. yes, me too. spill the contents on the floor and get real about every reflection you see, every decision you've made about what's real and who's right and what matters. face the messes made, don't shy away. i'm doing it too. i'm sitting on a pile a mile high and i am crying inside at how much dying i've done and i'm still here. gasping for breath in a broken system relentlessly plunging on, leaking toxic fumes the whole way. 

pull the fucking boxes down. feel all those feelings you've tucked away. the radical pain of not feeling seen or being loved or celebrated or acknowledged or cared for or supported or appreciated, that one time, way back then or right now or never once at all. feel the ache of your broken heart. feel the cry of it howling in the storehouse and pull the fucking boxes down. pour the stories on the floor. get messy, be vulnerable and remember. piece by piece make peace. piece by piece eat the bitterness with tenderness. honor your darkness. 

pull the boxes down and let the light in. ask better questions. pour the contents on the floor and be an archeologist searching for your humanity, digging for your creativity, praying for your ability to heal. 

we've gone numb. slapping on the latest trends to "look good" and "keep up" killing ourselves with each dollar spent. unplug your phone and disconnect. it's time to reconnect to source, to wholeness, to life itself thats begging for attention in every pair of eyes we dare to meet. 

pull down the fucking boxes that you've tucked away, the hate in yourself you didn't want to face. the shame that you never let see the light of day while you paint your face and say it's ok. acting as if you're happy in this monotonous meaninglessness while hungry, so hungry with longing. longing you try to fill in a million different ways. shopping and tv and drugs and wine and bars and sex and more drugs and more sex and judgment and critic and running away and running toward and margaritas and temple floors.  

each compartment you crack open, each box that falls to the floor, each label unraveled, each truth told, reveals a soft rhythm, a pulse drawing you whole. it's not in the words you're speaking, it's how you're seeing. with each crash we re-open the wound, and there lies the world. in wild pain. 

and in wild pain, is total growth. where wildness lives flowers bloom and the chaos of nature naturally knows how to grow and survive. in being together it discovers how to thrive. it's time to return to the earth. it's time to unpack so we can heal. 

we have to eat the poison of pain, every last one of us so we can FEEL the ache of it, the pain of it, the rape of it, the dying child cry of it, the black man's life of it, the inequality, the hypocrisy… and together cry: 


and i don't want to die. i don't want to choke on a half lived life. i don't want the compartmentalized chaos to be the critic i've internalized ruthlessly judging me to the point of paralysis. i want to stand up and rise and speak and shout and share this rage and pain and burning fire to light the path to lead the way to be the healing to catalyze the medicine to awaken the transformation and open the door for remembering. 

we don't have time for this plastic life anymore. 
 we don't have time for this boxed reality anymore. 

my skin sizzling, my growl vibrating in bones wrapped by muscle and skin. my primal power, my fierce love, my purpose driven mission, begging i listen and heed the call to remind you and you and you and you and you and you and you of the medicine you bring.

 i feel the fire and i remember i am here to burn. a blazing heart eternal calling the warriors of love home. 

and yes, i feel my own terror. and yes, i want to cower and hide in my own boxes. but i know there is a bigger game for me, this voice was made to be loud and i am no longer going to turn it down and some way somehow i will draw a crowd and we'll just see what starts to go down. we'll reclaim our bodies and our creativity and we'll remember our potency and we'll reconnect to cycles and rhythms and nature and each other. we'll feel and we'll heal. and we'll stumble along the way but we'll hold each others hands instead of stepping on each others faces. and in the holding there will be lifting and together we'll rise. 

i got up from my chair and said good night. it was time for bed even though i just got plugged in, something necessary turned on. and i drove home from this sacred space, this creation space where writing, reading and receiving is the meditation and transformation. i turned the music loud. so loud. to feel it all. the drum beat of my heart beat merging with the bass in the back beat. drumming it in. feel it all and remember. feel it all and heal. eat the poison to become the medicine. topple the tower of boxes and merge with the mess on the floor. rise renewed. 

 looking skyward light was peeking through striated clouds from a waxing moon, winking at me on her way to a second full. the light is coming. the light is here, even in the darkness i'm shining, even in the darkness i am rising.