Have You Ever Wanted To Leave Your Family?

I left my family.

How many of us women, wives, mothers have left? How many want to? Need to?


It was only for a couple of days. I went to my mother. The irony. Our past relationship is one of the reasons I have walked through the world protecting myself from the need to need anybody. But, I’m growing up. I went to my mom—anyway— and she was there.

She opened her door—could hardly believe her eyes I was standing in front of her. It felt good to be there. By day two, crawled up in a blanket she put on me, I began to feel a twinge of guilt. I was away from my own family and the guilt was probably a sign I was doing something I had not done in a while—take care of my self.

I don’t know all of the reasons I left, but my guess is any woman, mother, wife reading may know a reason or two. What I did discover: the pain that caused me to pack a bag and look into my husband’s eyes and say, “I’m leaving” was no longer seeing my reflection, the essence of who I am in my family—the one container I have put everything in to.

To put it another way— I lost myself in my family and not received a dividend for my investment except depletion and resentment. I desired them to fill me up as my cup ran dry, believing this reasonable, and I resented they couldn’t or wouldn’t. And when the water in our new home stopped working due to a frozen pipe, I had to leave.

For years I endured far worse than a frozen pipe. But, somehow this broke me.


It was this pipe that brought me back home. I had to let the service technician in. The water is flowing again. As for me, I am restored enough to see with new eyes, remembering my gaze is needed here in this home because a mother and a wife is what I am. It’s what I have chosen to do. But—my gaze is also needed to stay within my very own soul, a place I must return again and again for restoration, peace, clarity and wisdom.

The Soul Reporter

An Ode (auhhh, maybe not an ode, but I like the title) to the Sigh

My children say I sigh. Usually when I am in the kitchen. They make fun of me. Sigh behind my back and giggle.

What are you giggling about? Auhhh…..they say.

Do I sigh? Really? Do I?

Yes, mom. You sigh.

The kitchen at one time pleased me. This time has passed. Now I sigh (so I am told) as I wash the counter. Marinate a chicken breast. Clean a greasy pan. Make breakfast….again.

The sigh, the sound of the martyr. Auhhh. The sound of poor, distressed me. Universal, I suppose amongst many women. The sigh says, Save me from this. Take me away….I am a victim. And I certainly don’t want to be that person, right……?

Well, so what if you are that person in a moment (or several). So what if you are acting as The Sighing Martyr in your one-act play. Hating her moment. Resisting her work. Despising her routine. Bored and frustrated by her life. So what. I never wanted to be The Sighing Martyr. I hate people like that, right? Well I did. But of course me hating that part of them is also me hating that part of me- and hating something doesn’t clear the way. Loving might not either (if you force it), but laughing at it might.

I hear myself sighing now- and before my sigh’s hhh’s hit the air, I laugh. I think of my girls making fun of me, Auhhh-ing around the house (thinking, yeah- you just wait). I think of my inner martyr and how tortured she thinks she is, and how she wants to make everything a dramatic event. It’s funny. And it eases her.

What are you doing right now…………………………..? (Duh, your are reading this…Okay, before this….?)

Before I wrote this most inspired sentence, I was procrastinating. Trying to find a way out of my writing. Help me. Save me. (The martyr is quite adaptable. She can put on an apron and pick up a pen- in this case throw the pen) I watched me act her out, as together we have procrastinated many times. I usually judge myself/her/we for this. This time I didn’t. I loved myself/her/we for it (and I didn’t force it).

I love you for all that you do (and don’t do)– can you say this to yourself? If not, can you at least laugh at yourself?

When we can laugh and love, we take the u out of auhhh and it becomes ahhhh. The u is what gets offended. The u is who carries a story of what you u think u are. What u think u should do. Of what u hate and hope u are not. You are more than what u think/fear/believe.



The Soul Reporter

Wild Rice


Original Posting in 2009:

Frantic. Home from work. Arguing with husband about dinner. Daughter and I are gluten and dairy free. Other daughter and husband are not. I’m irritated. I want us to eat together. But how can we?

I also don’t want to cook. I want to relax. To be fed without effort.

I go into the kitchen deciding I will try a new gluten free recipe- mad.

Thinking, why do I have to cook? I have things I want to do.

Talk to husband about impending birthday of both our Gemini girls.

I take out the wild rice.
Why must I rinse it?
What a pain in the ass.

It’s getting it all over my hands as I try to wash away whatever I’m supposed to wash away.  And how will I drain it without losing it all down the kitchen sink drain?

I lose some grains.
I go to fill a pot. Let the water boil.
I touch the rinsed wild rice, and it occurs to me, as sometimes happens, this is a moment of opportunity to connect, in this case with my food.

But it doesn’t happen like that, as a thought of something I should do.
It occurs to me through the experience of touching the rice and noticing the sight with my eyes.

I am making food with my hands to nourish my body. Here in this space of homemaker I can reconnect, feel inspired and alive.

We often go from thing to thing missing these kinds of moments. That’s because they are in the spaces of our movement.

Have you had your wild rice moment yet today?

>My Love Letter to Love


Last January, I began the year breaking up with fear by writing it a letter,  My Break Up Letter with Fear.  This January, I am beginning the year reuniting with love in My Love Letter to Love.  But, before I compose my letter to Love, I will give you some background.

I began writing this post a couple of weeks ago, and I began it with this question:  Is the world ending?  It was intended as a joke, but since the events of dead birds falling from the sky and dead fish and crabs washing up on shore, I wonder, maybe it is.  If so, I am glad I am finding the love deeply and patiently stored within my heart.

However, there was a time I would not be glad of such a thing, which is why I began the post with asking that question. When I felt love in my heart, I thought not that the world was ending, but that mine was.  I believed I would die if I expressed my love to those I love.  Sound silly, right?  Seriously. It’s true.

The thinking was this:  I feel love, but if I express it then it means I am dying.  Okay, so this is good because if I do die I will have at least expressed my love, but this isn’t how my mind worked. It worked in the opposite.  If I am dying, which was a thought that frightened me like no other, that fear kept the love away, so instead the love I was feeling was repressed and not given.  This meant if I didn’t express it, I was safe, and I wasn’t dying.  Control issues, wouldn’t you say?

But I can’t run from love anymore- or let me say, I can run, but I don’t want to.  Funny thing is, I didn’t think I was running from love.  I didn’t even know love was moving toward me, but recently it is absorbing itself into my existence.  I’m beginning to see my entire journey is about a continual heart-opening meditation on love, one breath at a time.  I’m beginning to see this poem from Rumi I meditate on is happening inside of me:

Oh, Love. Oh, pure, deep Love.  Be here. Be now. Be all.
Worlds dissolve into your stainless, endless radiance.
Make me your servant. Your breath. Your core. 

I’m thinking Love loves this, and in order to declare Love further, here goes my letter:

Dear Love,

I love you.  This should be all I need to say, right?  I know you don’t need anymore than this. In fact you don’t even need this. You sit there and smile proudly at me no matter if I love you or not.  But I need this.  I need to tell you some things.  

My Husband

I’ve been running from you instead of running toward you.  At times I have run so far I believe the voices in my head that say I don’t care and even hate.  When my family gets too close, and I feel you in my heart I think of a funny joke or some sarcastic thing to say.  When you urge me to reach for my husband’s hand, instead I think of all the reasons he doesn’t deserve my hand.  Did he shower today?  Remember when I thought he was cheating on me?  And my kids.  You nudge me to touch their hair like my aunt does with her daughters, but no one did this to me so I feel stupid, and instead I keep my hands to myself and push you away.

My Alyssa

My Lilli

Strangers.  You whisper to me we are the same.  But they only look different and some speak in foreign languages and that irritates me.  Some dress in frumpy clothes and I judge them.  Just as well.  Don’t need them anyway.  

Oh Love, how I’ve resisted you. Feared and abhorred you. Denied and cheated you. Yet, always curious of you. Is it really all about you, Love?  Come on, you are weak and sad, a frail, little creature, you never defend yourself or get mad.  You are kind of a chump- so just sit back and relax. I will take over from here, and I usually do, pulling sarcasm out of my cap.  Oh, but it does not matter…

Oh my, Love. You are always there, aren’t you? Nudging, whispering, suggesting, offering.  You want me to be close and I continue to be far, far away from you.  But I can’t seem to help it even though I say that prayer: Oh, Love. Oh, pure, deep love- make me your servant.  Your breath. Your core.  Yes, Love make me your everything please. I beg you. I cannot take the separation any more. I need you.  But then, people appear- and I go away again.  Away from you. Away from them. Away from me. I’m scared.

When will I learn to be in your embrace?  When will I learn?  Sometimes I feel I force you into me as if you are waiting somewhere outside of me. And then when I know you are inside, I throw you away, as if I could.  Oh, Love how complex we are.  Oh, Love how pure and simple you are.  When will we learn
When will we learn?

I want to say something more profound to you.  Something to make you love me.  Oh, I get it- this is what I do with other people.  Love me. Love me. Love me.  The entire world screams love me. It is our most silent prayer, and heard everywhere.  You are truly all we want.  And you are everywhere.  Sometimes I feel you. Can I be you? Would you care?  

My Father

I do feel you more.  My small family seems to know you like never before.  My father- every time we hang up the phone: ‘I love you,’ he says, ‘just in case.’  These three words, for a long time, were not spoken. My dad, he’s a kind man.  But we’ve been awkward around you. What do we do? What do we say? We feel you between us, but I think we’ve been scared. 

My Mother

My mom. Once so feisty. Now so frail.  I protect myself from her. I really struggle to release you to her, but I must. Everyone deserves you no matter what they have done, or continue to do.  Dammit, Love I just want to love. Why is it so hard?  I know everything would be so much better if I just completely opened up to you.  What would I lose?  What can I keep? What if I die?  Love through it all, you say. Love through it all.  I’ll try.  I’ll try.  

And here is my final salute to you~

Love- ready or not. Take me over. I’m yours. I can no longer be 

separate. You are what I fight for. What I hold out for, and when you are here, you feel so damn good.  I may not let 

you arrive to me fully- today, tomorrow or on the next return but this 

is my prayer until this time arrives. Love- ready or not. Take me 

over. I’m yours.     

At least now, I know what I’m after.

Today’s Soul Tip:

Stephen Hawking told his children, ‘if you find love in life, consider it the greatest gift.’  Love is everywhere. It’s in you. Find it and give it. It’s all we must do.  

>Oh the Places She’ll Go

I am at the hospital with my mom. She is having an upper and lower scope done.  I should be doing some writing, but my mind feels like mush. I have been working on my manuscript for the past several days, or maybe weeks.  Once I get in the groove I am good, but when I am not I feel complete blah, like I do now. I don’t know maybe it is the energy of the hospital. I haven’t been able to write at home in the last few days. It is so quiet there, so I have been going to coffee shops. For some reason I can focus more when there is noise, or maybe like my friend Theri suggested it is the energy of the caffeine that gets me going. Either case, I feel mushy right now, which is why I feel like I am just rambling right now- saying nothing. 

I will move on to something- my daughter, who is 15 and started a blog. I will post it on my blog roll once she changes the name. She put her full name as her title, which I told her to change. It makes me nervous having her information on the internet.  My full-time job has been raising my girls. Now, that my oldest is 15 (picture above)I am beginning to see the pay offs from the dedication.  She is a thoughtful, insightful girl who works hard and is committed to her dream of being an actress- although I know she will be more than that. 
When she was a little girl I made a scrapbook for her. On the front is the cover of Dr. Seuss’s book- Oh, the Places You’ll Go.  She is going to go far.  Maybe all moms say this about their kids, but for me it is different because I am not one to brag and boast about my kids.  I find it unnecessary. Who they are speaks for themselves. When I say she will go far- I say it from the perspective of one human being looking upon another and just knowing there is something special there.  I take no responsibility for it- however I do feel happy I have been the kind of mom to guide and honor who she is, without my stuff getting in the way.