Day 239.

Convergences. Some deep shit is happening.

A few days ago, a truly extraordinary human being passed away. I struggled with writing that sentence. I'm still not sure what I believe about what it is to "die." I tried to write things like, "transitioned" or "left this form" or "left us." But I know none of those things are true. She is still here with us, her work is here with us, her spirit is here with us, and her body is here with us . . . just . . . changing. Whatever you want to call it, Wangari Maathai, founder of the Green Belt Movement, is no longer here the way she was before. 

Day 238.

I can't bring myself to publish a half-ass blog post. I've been trying to write this thing for like 3 days. Even if it's not as snazzy and timely and relevant tomorrow, that's when it's going up . . . because that's when it'll be right.

So, again, with little fanfare: my head. And that's pretty much it.

Day 237.

Words come soon.

Day 236.

Day 235.

Day 234.

Still sick, but have a full day ahead of me. Here I go.

Day 233.

Sick.

Day 232.

Day 231.

Troy Davis.
Wall Street.
Censorship.
Sorrow.
Joy.
Longing.
Homeland.
Home.
Freedom.

Day 230.

Behind me: my life, in boxes.
In front of me: happiness.
Around me: the world, all people, all existence, constantly reminding me that even the skin I think separates us is not a barrier.




In the background:

Day 229.

To anyone who may be offended by what I write here:

I am a stand for honesty, and my stories are mine to tell, so if you don't like it, please kindly check out the rest of the infinite amount of material on the internet and leave my little corner alone.

Thank you.

Day 228.

(I wrote a bunch of things today, and then I decided this is the only bit I want to share.)

I am a volcano, words and feelings a soup in my belly, bubbling, intermingling, wanting to move up through my mouth and come out and kiss the air. What about the village? We can't cover the people in your lava, we can't coat them with your ash. They won't survive it. 

Day 227.

This is my post-retreat face.

Day 226.

Just as I was trying to figure out some profound caption for this photo, my iTunes shuffle brought this awesomeness to my ears: "Oh. My. God. Becky. Look at her butt! . . . " Sir Mix-a-lot brings me back to earth.

LA face with an Oakland booty? Yer damn right.

Happy Saturday!

Day 225.

I don't know this expression of mine. I like it.

Day 224.

Running off!

Day 223.

Day 222.

Last night:

By the light of the harvest moon, I practiced jo kata, and bid farewell to old loves, old hates, old stories, and old hair, shaved from my head unceremoniously by strangers. I wrote things, names, sorrows, on paper, crumpled it, and offered it to the fire, to practice, just practice, just practice over and over again what it feels like to let go.

Today: I am practicing letting go of fear, specifically, of the fears of being misunderstood and being invisible.

Day 221.

Writing a letter to a two-year old I've never known, because it's almost her birthday and she needs to know some things. Untangling all the mess around it to say only that which needs to be said. Heart work is hard work, and tears come frequently.

Day 220.

Entirely open, loved, and loving.

Just came back from a BBQ/reunion with some old coworkers. I've decided that the most impactful part of social justice work is truly the relationships that last throughout our lives. It's been a long time since I've been to an event at which everyone is genuinely happy to see everybody else. With every new person that showed up to the party, the gang erupted into squeals and "yay's."

Heart open, expanding every day. It seems lately that I am constantly reminded of all of the different ways it is possible to feel loved. Opening, opening, opening.

Day 219.

Swimming in fruit and chocolate.

Day 218.

All heart-knowledge is being whispered around you, near your ears, brushing against your hair, in every moment. Listen.

Day 217.

Yesterday I stood, hard, tall
Statuesque 

At the lip of a pool of my sorrow
Metal shield at my chest

Arms at my sides, no sword
Only prepared for defense.

Day 216.

Day 215.

Day 214.

If only all weekends could be like this. Three days long, full of queers and brown folks, full of dancing and laughter and deepening connections and food and drink and sunshine.

Heart full.

Day 213.

Day 212.

Dinner.

Also.

Imagining life the way it could and will be. Imagining all that I can create. Imagining life, new life, created and incubated in my body, coming free, being human, being a part of me and yet completely autonomous. Imagining stories, penned, typed, of ancestors, and old, crumbling mansions, and all that has brought me here. Imagining songs yet to be sung, dances yet to be danced. Imagining the light, not at the end of the tunnel, but that creeps through the cracks all throughout the tunnel that is this life. Playing games and kissing strangers and climbing pyramids at the "ruins" of ancient civilizations. Saying things and writing words and acting in ways that change the course of the way things are, leaving indelible marks. Watching as others act to change people and minds and hearts. Loving everything. Loving every last thing, every last beautiful and ugly part of myself and of this complicated, complicated world.

Day 211.

Friday's photo didn't get posted somehow? Blogger is being weird. Here's yesterday's face.

Day 210.

Writing poems, connecting with humans, saying what is real, asking for what I deserve. None of it translatable to blog-world, currently. Enjoy my face.