"But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world . . ." – The Little Prince
The wild don’t have anxiety, believe in the fear-based thoughts the mind conjures, nor do they pay homage to the ego, have ties to achievement, or fears of not being enough, especially when following their heart, a path that might not lead to outward acclaim. The wild are true only to their souls.
At the same time, the wild are not reckless. They don’t egoically override fear to prove their superiority over it, which ultimately strengthens their ego identity. When making decisions, there’s no debate among the voices in their head, or even if there is, the wild can see them as fears. Instead, the wild use intuition. Their hearts are the only compass they need. They both love life and do not fear death. The wild care only about protecting the innocence of the inner child.
Guided by love and not fear, guided not by the mind but by the soul, the wild are free.
*This phrase was first said to me by Denise Mange, founder of Pet Prana, who is a pet trainer and animal communicator. She said this to me during a session with her after I said that I almost always worry about Pacer when we’re out adventuring. This made me realize that most of my fear voices, “Do we turn back? Do we keep going? Is Pacer happy?”, were mine and not Pacer’s. Pacer is happy just being outside (especially with her pack), and as always, will tell me when she wants to turn or slow down. It’s only the voices, or parts arguing in my head, that in the past would leave me confused. And truly, my fears and my general anxiety/hypervigilance around life have affected Pacer, who can pick up on my stress, causing her to be excessively protective of me. This obviously wasn’t good for her, and because I love Pacer more than anything in the world, forced me to look at myself. Really, Pacer was asking me to step into my own power, to start trusting myself and my intuition again (I’ve done quite a bit of parts work to unravel myself from the thoughts blocking me from my intuition), so we could both return to our wild nature.
Even after dropping more specific labels such as runner or athlete, I still allowed myself to be somewhat identified by “adventurer” and “explorer”. Those our broad enough, right?
I also explained explorer (this is even in my bio in Light & Dark) as being a person willing to explore both their outer and inner landscape. This is pretty accurate. I just wasn’t doing it.
I was creating and forcing my own adventures. And yes, in terms of mountain adventures, you want to plan appropriately for safety reasons, yet the real grace is when you can let go of the plan and allow the Mother Nature and the day to bring what she will. Being a true adventurer is going with the flow. It’s accepting that when a door shuts on you, or it starts to rain, that you’re being redirected by something greater than yourself and toward something that is in your highest good. (You may have just avoided a huge accident by returning back to your car.) It’s realizing that an injury or illness isn’t punishment, nor is it something to push through. It’s the knowing that something greater is happening in the Yin (resting potential).
Being a true explorer means being curious. Honestly, 3 year olds are probably the best explorers our there. They’re just going where their parents take them and stopping to look at all the bugs and leaves along the way. Adults tend to plan and force, even when it doesn’t feel good or aligned with joy. We’re ruled by our minds and fear. Instead of looking to others for inspiration, we look at them through comparison…If this adventurer has a van, we need to have a van and YouTube channel too. If this athlete is running these races and that’s where the money is, I need to run those race too. If this wanderer is traveling to that state or country, then I need to wander over there too… Rarely are we actually willing to let go of plans and travel into the Unknown, allowing the path to be revealed to us.
Being a True Explorer is going into the Unknown with curiosity, trust, and joy. A True Explorer accepts the redirects of life and happily changes path. A True Explorer is guided by their heart rather than fear. A True Explorer lives from inspiration instead of motivation and comparison. A True Explorer is free. In actuality, a True Explorer doesn’t have to create or carve out a new path. Instead, she relaxes knowing that a unique path is already laid out for her. A True Explorer is willing to follow the breadcrumbs of Life, recognizing animal symbolism, dreams, and synchronicities as guidance.* A True Explorer trust that she will be guided to experiences for her highest good, that the challenges (often in the form of ego** slaying) are necessary for ascension, and that love not be searched for in far away places, but it is always there. A True Explorer is always on the Divine Path back to True Self.
*I just checked my phone and it was, of course, 11:11.
**When the Bible talks about “demons”, the metaphorical translation is ego.
When I came to realize strength, or maybe toughness is the better word (it’s all semantics really), was not an external characteristic but an internal one, I spent a lot of time contemplating what the word actually meant. While this post explores a few topics, such as hustle culture, survival energy, and fertility, much of it is a contemplation on what true strength really is…following my heart in world that is often led by the mind.
Strong isn’t about surviving.
Fertility isn’t about being a mom (although it can certainly encompass motherhood).
Strength and fertility, I am certain, go hand in had. But not in the way most of us think they do…
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I was a tough kid with an empath’s heart.
Scrappy. Always hustling. Not afraid (or maybe more accurate, not caring) of flinging my body across the basketball court or acquiring the next bruise.
“Only the strong survive” read my well-worn armband, a quote from my favorite NBA player Allen Iverson (pre-domestic abuse allegations).
This was my rough exterior. Like a soldier going into battle, only with life being the enemy, I armored my heart and prepared for a life a struggle and having to fight my way to…the top? Happiness? Something better? I didn’t have a whole lot of examples of anything else to look up to, I just knew I wanted something different.
Of course, all my friends saw through my baggy basketball shorts and cut-off t-shirts, sometimes earning the nickname “mom” from some of my male friends. I hated it, but I really couldn’t help myself as I reminded them to study…I just wanted the best for them. As much as I tried to hide it, I could never bury this loving, nurturing part of me.
But with this part came my emotions, and I knew- learned early on in life- that was unacceptable.
My equation? Physical pain= good. Internal pain= bad.
Back to the grind.
Working hard to earn my worth. Slaying my way through another report card of straight As, berating myself for anything less. Hours exhausting myself first spent in the gym, then running outside as I got older. Never really stopping for. a. chance. to. take. a. breath.
To listen to my heart.
Figure myself out.
Even in my 20s as I rebelled and rejected America’s 8-5 (or longer) culture, the hustler in me couldn’t really let go. Dropping the habit was one thing, dropping the mindset was another.
The armor, although softened slightly, remained a vigilant guard around my heart.
Honestly, I didn’t even know it was there, I was so used to it. Or rather, I only became conscious of the protective shield in my early 30s. I didn’t realize there was another way of living.
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I’m not sure what made me decide that the intention for my rights of passage during my second year of grad school would be to embody my Divine Feminine. I don’t think I even really understood the feminine and masculine energies back then. And still, even when I received signs of fertility, abundance, healing, and closeness with Mother Earth (namely snakes and wild turkeys), I wanted to reject them.
(In case you’re wondering, the masculine energy embodies the “doer”and gets things done. The feminine energy is the creative, life-force energy. These two energies work great together…but only if we lead with the feminine. …Did I just explain where America went wrong?)
Fertile? I had never once in my life wanted to have kids. I may have had a very short time period during childhood playing with barbie dolls, but the stories I told during play never involved families. I definitely wasn’t interested in baby dolls. Maybe I knew fertility had a bigger meaning than just having kids…but I’m not sure my mind ventured further than fertile vs. barren soil. And I figured that, at least, I honored and fulfilled my nurturing side at work. For a long, long time I left it at that.
My grad school “yearbook” picture. Looking back, I realize that my friends saw the real me before I even saw myself.
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It has really been only recently, as in two weeks ago, that I started to put two and two together. And really, it was only “kinda” me. Or maybe it was the actual me, the higher self me. Let me explain….
One of the things that has helped me the most in the past few months are my free writing sessions. I also call this channeling, but I don’t want to scare anyone away. Maybe I’ll write about that at another time. In short, the message I received from the quick writing of my left hand was that I didn’t have to fight to survive, that I just needed to allow the earth to provide while living in harmony with it. That this is my Divine Feminine. My only fight was to come back Home to myself.
I likened this to hunters and gatherers I learned about in school. Despite being vegan for a decade (again, habits can die while mentalities live on), I embodied a hunter, risking my life in the search for food. Yet I was always meant to be a gatherer, sometimes growing, but usually just picking, and harvesting the fruit, nuts, and vegetables that were already gifted to me.
In short, fertility is my inherent abundance, my power, and in that is my manifestation* abilities. The only thing I can do is block it. Which I’ve gotten really, really good at after 30 years of practice.
*I actually told my Reiki therapist the other day that I needed to drop the word “manifestation” for a bit and just “be and allow.“
My block? My hustle. Or rather, my hustle mentality. The voice that told me I had to do, do, do in order to be worthy anything good. The voice that said I could only have nice things if I worked hard for them. The voice that said I had to earn even my rest.
My Reiki therapist (his really name is Anthony, but maybe I should give him a name like “Ghandi” or maybe even “Obi-Wan Kenobi”, as Dan Millman nicknamed his teacher “Socrates” in The Way of the Peaceful Warrior) encouraged me to meditate and practice Being, to find the serenity within myself as I also fought to challenge my negative thoughts. Once in awhile, as much as I doubted it, the Universe showed me it working in my favor* , whether by circumstance or intuition.
*The obvious “duh” here is the free, almost daily sessions with Obi-Wan Kenobi and having a place to live (even if I always worry about being a burden) during this wanderlust period.
First, when I blew the tire on my sister’s mountain bike (downhill mood), and then after a laser therapy session (uphill mood), my intuition led me into a nearby bike shop. Still walking in the door, I almost instantly locked into the blue eyes of the bike mechanic behind the counter (I swear, if there was a high resolution camera put in slow motion, you’d see me taken aback and stutter for just a millimeter of a second as my soul registered his). And, whether it’s a summer fling or something more, somehow I found myself spending time with both a teacher in flow (being with movement) and someone that I simply like Being with…sometimes talking, often not, looking at the horizon for hours on end. Could I really not doing anything and still be liked? Or course my mind tried to abandon ship and self-sabotage within a week and a half. Why? Because my Ultimate Block, I realized as I was discussing accepting and allowing Love* in with Anthony/Obi-Wan Kenobi is that I don’t believe I deserve Love. So how could I possible allow Love and joy to flow through me, let alone accept a guy being nice to me? (Empaths and narcissist come from the same wound, even if they fall on opposite sides of the spectrum, which is a big part of the reason why an empath may find themself in a relationship with a narcissist.)
*Capital “L” Love = Unconditional Universal Love.
However, saying this untruth out loud (deep, deep, deep down I know it’s just a cognition I’ve been conditioned to believe) for the first time seemed to help loosen the lie’s death grip. Maybe I could fight this thought (while accepting my ego) and allow Love in.
Herein lies my strength…my choice to fight this internal battle of Love over fear, heart over head, intuition over ego. To stay true to my heart in a world ruled by a conditioned mind. I’ve wanted to give up more times during this run than I ever have during an ultra race. Yet with a soul that demands to be free, I know my life my life depends on me staying in it.
And this is where this story of quitting the hustle, strength, fertility, and following my heart becomes a story to be continued…
“Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.”― Rumi
*Nuance: I use the word “fight” a lot as it’s the best word I have at my fingertips. I kind of mean it and I kind of don’t. In some sense, it absolutely does feel like I am fighting for the freedom of my heart and soul. I am constantly challenging my thoughts and the rule of my mind over my heart. Yet in this, I’m not labeling my mind or thoughts as “bad”. The goal is to be able to witness my thoughts without giving in to them, which allows more room for the heart to lead.
For a month, we have been doing some on and off running, but mostly hiking the dirt roads from our yurt.
But today, on a chilly spring morning with the clouds hanging low over the mountains, we ran! Yes, still hiking up most of the hills (we do live above 8,000ft), but running everything else.
At the halfway point, I was reminded of how I officially started my healing journey 6 months earlier at the labyrinth of the hospital where I was getting the PRP injection into my Achilles heel, where I gazed out at the Indian Peaks. Yesterday, Pacer and I paused at the labyrinth at Joyful Journeys Hot Springs, where I had just soaked in the mineral rich and sacred waters with friends, this time looking out at the Sangre de Cristo mountains. I knew that I was looking out at the mountains with a new perspective, a true, more whole version of me.
Realizing this, I started to cry. Actually, let’s be real. I don’t cry. I sob. So I stopped on the dirt tracks, let the joy-tears come, and kissed Pacer on her snout.
We did it. We made it through the pain. And now, it is time to fly again.
The day Dad shared the news, I believe, started off as an ordinary day. My sisters and I went to school, came home, maybe ate dinner. That evening, before the announcement, he first took me, Sandi, and Amanda to Brookpark Fun & Games, which maybe I thought was a little odd, being a school night and all. I won a small stuffed animal. I don’t remember what it was, or how I won it. I just remember I had it when he sat us all down on Grandma’s couch.
I think he was standing, we were sitting, Grandma in the other room. He and Mom, he said, were getting a divorce.
At first I didn’t understand it. I think I was only 6 or 7. My only timeline is that my uncle, Dad’s youngest brother, passed away from Leukemia the year before. My sister tells me this is the first time she remembered seeing him cry, the second being just a few years ago when Amanda passed. Soon after the news, Dad had a heart attack, age 40, cause: a broken heart. I remember helping him put on his socks as he recovered that winter. I faintly remember mine and Sandi’s (my twin) kindergarten, 1st grade, and 2nd grade teachers feeling bad for us.
As I was sitting on Grandma’s couch, I remember picturing me and my sisters floating away in boxes in the ocean. Separated. It sounds silly, but I was so little, still partially dependent on my parents for shaping my understanding and view of the world. I must have cried. I just don’t remember. I don’t remember what happened next, when we saw Mom at home.
I think this is the day I first learned how to dissociate. My body partially shutting down and my imagination floating somewhere else, to protect me from my emotions, the emotions that my little body couldn’t yet process on its own.
I needed to my parents. I needed them to comfort me. To tell me that they loved me and that everything would be okay.
But they were in their own pain. They had learned themselves as children to shut down their emotions from their parents. A survival technique most likely used for generations to get through the hardships of life. And so, I was left alone, inside my own inner world.
For much of my life, I tried to dismiss my parent’s divorce as having any affect on my. After all, I figured, lots of kids experience the divorce of their parents. Of course, some of the wounds started to creep up in relationships as I entered my late 20s. Then, I recently learned that divorce, especially when kids have no voice in the matter, affects the part of the brain that associated with self-worth. [To be more specific, the frontostratial pathway, which links the medial prefrontal cortex (self-knowledge) with the ventral striatum (motivation and reward). Thank you Dr. Bruce Perry for sharing this research in What Happened to You? and https://www.huffpost.com/entry/self-esteem-brain_n_5500501]. I don’t think I felt that the divorce was my fault, but I didn’t feel like I had control of anything happening and I certainly had no one to comfort me, save for my stuffed animals Big Abu and Little Abu.
My brain, at the time, must have associated this with not being enough. A belief that I’ve only semi-consciously carried with me for the last 25+ years.
As a kid, self-soothing came in the form of eating, until I heard the “chunky” comments, and then I numbed my way to anorexia. Then there were sports. Sports, of course, aren’t bad. Except exercises fed my anorexia. Basketball, thinness, and grades all become closely associated with my self-worth.
Eventually, I became ruled by the belief, the fear, that I wasn’t enough. My body was too anxious to play basketball well. My shooting wrist would lock up. I’d have panic attacks, simply playing against boyfriends. In running, I was determined to leave the pressure, the past, behind me. I just wanted to bask in the freeness of running outside.
But you can’t escape the shadows that you don’t know are there. (Aka, the unconscious.)
I loved running.
Yet I got caught in the traps of a culture that said “do more” over and over and over again.
My body had enough. The left hip developed a “hitch”. On flat ground, I felt like I couldn’t control the leg’s swing. I developed calf strains. Running, limping, fainting 100 miles through the first one. And finally, an Achilles tendon injury that stubbornly wouldn’t heal.
I was frustrated for so long. Now I am simply grateful. I believe my Achilles was telling me “I’m not going to let you run until both you unconscious on conscious believes that you are enough. You don’t always have to do things to feel that way. You don’t have to work so hard to be loved. Only then will you know what it’s like to run embodied with freedom and joy. “
Joy and freedom have always been what I’ve strived for. And I have felt that way in the mountains, yet never without that little voice in the back of my mind too, coaxing me like the serpent of Eden, “You a have enough time. Do that mountain too.”
Now, there are times that I do want to extend the day outside. It’s the pressure in my body that feels awful, unloving, persisting even after I call out my ego and choose to stop. The should haves on the drive home actually driving me further away from myself, the home inside my body.
Striving, I realize, is not the right word for what I want to obtain. For striving for love is not love. It’s actually a returning. A returning to my 6 year old self, reminding her that she is loved. That she has nothing to prove, no need to claim her worthiness. A returning to that core truth, so when the world around her spins in a way she can’t control, only that truth exists. That love, joy, and freedom are always present, if not outside then within. The heart that exist outside of protections, ego, and human form.
A few years ago, on a cold and snowy night in Northeast Ohio, I picked up a pen and my journal and words spilled from my hands. As I wrote, I thought I was writing my story, the story of how I lost my wings as a young girl and found them once again in my 20s. What I realized later on was the I was writing the story, in poem format, of most women I know. A year later, my sister and her boyfriend turned my poem into a video that has now been viewed by thousands and seen at The Trail Running Film Festival. My poem has now become the story of women rising.
Artwork by Sandi Nypaver
She Wanted to Fly. . .So She Flew
Once there was a little girl. She wanted to fly… So she flew.
She flew over rooftops, And skimmed the tops of trees. She flew so high that she soared with the birds. She flew even higher than the clouds, She flew among the stars.
Her wings took her anywhere she wanted to go. Her wings were only visible to her, And that is how the problem occurred. She told others of the her magical flights, And how her wings rose with the wind, Taking her higher than the mountain tops. But those who couldn’t see her wings told her this wasn’t true. They said her imagination was playing tricks on her, She had no wings, She couldn’t fly.
At first she didn’t believe them, and she continued to fly. But they grew more persistent. They told her she needed to start growing up, That it was best to keep such silly dreams to herself. Then one day, a few years down the road, She tried to fly, But never left the ground.
She remembered those voices who told her she couldn’t And figured they were right. She couldn’t really fly. Still, she worked hard in school and got good grades. She dreamed about her future And about what she wanted to be when she grew up. However, when she told others of her dreams They told her she was foolish. Some said she was not pretty enough, Others said she was not smart or creative enough. They said she should be practical And to keep such silly dreams to herself. So, she believed those voices too. Her world became gray, Rain fell every day.
But then, on a seemingly un-extraordinary day, A soft breeze blew at her back. At first she ignored it, But then it grew stronger. It lifted her feet right off the ground!
Suddenly she remembered all the times she used to fly. “Yes!” she remembered, “I flew so very high up in the sky!” As a young girl, she had flown over rooftops, Skimmed the tops of trees, And soared with the birds. Without any doubt, She knew her memories were real. Her dreams could come true, If she just believed.
And with that thought, Her broken wings were healed. Suddenly, she was flying above the clouds, Higher than the mountaintops, And found herself among the stars.
Once there was a little girl. She wanted to fly… So she flew.
Rarely does my therapist let me go into existential crisis mode. And rightfully so- I could theorize and deflect all day.
But last session was different. She let me go there, probably realizing it was intertwined with my pain. The physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual pain, all wrapped up into one.
I gave my “fuck you” to god. “I feel so much pain, why can’t you just give me this one thing that lets me feel free?” My dance. My connection. My flight. My stride.
Of course I know God/Spirit/The Universe has given me many things, such as Pacer, a twin sister, friends and family, etc.- but any time I travel down that rabbit hole I’m led to feeling guilty for not feeling grateful enough, and that’s a whole different part of myself I need to work on. My higher self reminds me not to conflate gratitude with guilt, that I can feel many things at once: pain, anger, sadness, and gratitude.
The funny thing is that trying to stop the physical pain has led me to unraveling my emotional pain.
After running on and off in pain for years, I finally decided to call it. Annoyed because I had already worked on this and accepted I may never run fast again. But not run at all? I felt all the stages of grief, often multiple stages at once: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.
I try no to let my negative voices belittle myself. “It’s just running, after all.” Truly, I (choose to) identify more as an explorer than a runner anyway. But I can’t deny that running has always been my best and favorite way to feel free, the feeling I most crave in life. Each stride, grounding and flying in a single second.
I’m not quitting. I’m just surrendering. Accepting. Realizing I can still try to heal my pain while accepting the pain my never go away. But I’m not going to force myself to run in it anymore. Which is a whole other type of healing.
I have no need to escape. I’ve faced my demons and made friends. I’ve walked directly into my darkness, run into the moonless nights. And found the sunrise. I’ve dived into my past, spent time with the ghosts, came back on with love I’ve cried a million tears, only to unearth a treasure of joy.
My shadows walk with me, spirits of the Underworld, right besides my angles, loved ones passed.
So no, I can’t run away. But I will run with you. Along shores. Up mountains. Through forests. Over hills. Even on city streets. Whatever calls to us, asking to be explored.
The darkness, I know, it will come again. We can face it together. Carrying our own light.
I asked, “Will you run towards this wild adventure with me?”
At least once a week, I’ll cry over Pacer.The tears are from the purest Love I know. They symbolize both my deepest gratitude for being blessed to have the best companion I could ever want, and an even deeper grief knowing one day she will most likely leave this Earth before me. (I’ve cried every time I have thought of, written, and edited that line.) The funny thing is that I know she loves me just the same.She just doesn’t seem to share my sorrow.It’s like she knows, or at least more truly believes, something I don’t.Sometimes I swear I can see the Universe through her eyes.
One of my only hopes when I leave this world is that I can fully encompass so much Love.
God is Love.Dog is Love.
I am by no means an expert in the history of language, but I can with almost 100% certainty say that it is no coincidence that God spelled backwards is Dog.If only the religions of the world recognized that, there would be no shortage of compassion.
A little more on our Love story:
When my then boyfriend and I (we adopted her together) went to pick up Pacer (in Asheboro, NC), I was just about as nervous as I was excited—pretty much how I am going on any mountain adventure.
That little squirt was such a beautiful little determined sass-ball from the start.She tripped my boyfriend walking up to the car, puked in my lap on the drive home, and had us chasing her around the yard from the start.
When me and that first boyfriend split (I guess we can call him her Dad), it was never a question of whom she’d go with.I would’ve stayed in that relationship if I had to, even though we had exhausted all options of working things out.I’m pretty sure he and I both cried when I left.Pacer probably licked my tears.But did she know that we were leaving for good?
Pacer has been with me through several other relationships after that, like the one boy I fell in love with, hard and fast, but between The Pill* that left me with panic attacks, navigating a transition back to being a student, and a whole lot of insecurities, we couldn’t make it work.I’m not sure how much I cried on mine and Pacer’s trip to Cloud Peak Wilderness in Wyoming (I may have still been in denial), but she remained my constant companion through the very literal highs and lows.
*I am by no means against The Pill or any other method of birth control.For me they just didn’t work.And for any guy reading this, go you for wearing a condom and taking part of the responsibility off your partner.
Then there was the relationship that ended with a boyfriend coming home drunk and angry, her body under mine in hopes that I could protect her from some of the yelling.She never judged me for not leaving sooner and instead gave comfort by simply laying next to me (plus some incessant pawing and licking) not as I cried from heartbreak but the absurdity of it all.Then off to the mountains we went again, seeking healing in the San Juans, her never leaving my side even when not happy with my route decisions.(She has, however, learned to demand rest days.)
The last boyfriend, whom we both adored, maybe loved, but only Pacer could ever say.Except my internal warning system has never been able to turn off of high alert from the last one.I can’t tell you if the system was accurate or faulty, only that when I felt my throat constrict and the weight in my chest that I was already trapped in a mix of fight and flight.All my body could tell me was enough.Even on those lonely nights hoping for a text or a “like” on Facebook, Pacer just curled up beside me on the couch (unless she got bored with me ignoring her for the computer, and put herself to bed.)
True Love is unconditional.We’ve never needed words because we could always attune to the other’s presence.Or maybe spirit?Pacer is my ultimate Love story.
I laugh because that certainly isn’t to stay our story has been perfect or easy.I still can’t say I’ve totally forgave myself for some of the training tools (ex. e-collar) I used on her as a puppy (instructed by professionals) or some of the mountains I’ve taken her up when she was clearly not happy with me by the end.And I can still see her little body running through our old house with the veggie burgers I made for dinner locked in her jaw.Even more so, Pacer has made my life more challenging.I can’t be away from home for more than 8 hours (maybe 9, but then I feel guilty), I can’t travel unless Sandi can watch her or I can afford to put her in boarding with a trainer who is used to working with reactive dogs, and I carefully consider each trail we can go on safely.Then there’s the constant worry.Like right now, her first few steps on her hind leg are tentative, and then she’s fine.Should we do an easy hike tomorrow, or should we abandon ship (or rather, our camping trip) and head home?Nevertheless, all of that is second.Effortlessly, she slid into my life as my number one priority.I never regret anything I haven’t been able to do because of her.Because her laying next to me is worth so much more than anything else.
I probably should add…it’s not to say I don’t love some of the humans in my life to the Nth degree.It’s just that we humans often come with conditions and stories of what Love should be, which makes it harder.Pacer just is Love. (At least to those who know her.For those of who don’t—well my friend told me that Pacer has the bite that I don’t always have when I should.)Together we just ARE.
Maybe Pacer, and all dogs, have been put into this world to teach humans what Love is.
In many ways, Pacer and I are wild, stubborn or determined (depending on your perspective), and tamed only in the sense that I am Hers and She is mine.
Preface: These thoughts come to me in the midst of a new, budding relationship. Yes, there is a “new Boy” who’s been nothing but kind and thoughtful. Still, it’s been a hesitation of mine from the start that he “identifies” as Catholic. I know identifies is a funny thing to say in defining someone’s religious choice, but for me he’s not the Catholic I grew up with—he’s more of the John Pavlovitz type—to the point where there are times that I want to say to him, “You’re not really Catholic then.” In my mind, to at least help me make sense of it all for now, I’ve divided it up to the Catholic Church as a business, and Catholic the religious practice. But to back track a bit, he’s seems (and has stated) that he genuinely does not care that I identify as spiritual. Which makes me question if I am hypocritical in my own spirituality that I do question the sustainability of our relationship because of our beliefs. I won’t let myself completely off the hook with that thought, as I do want to make sure that I don’t deny others of the religious and spiritual freedom that I was denied growing up. However, I do want to acknowledge the weight and heaviness of the religion classes and lectures I sat through as a kid. I thought I had processed it all before this relationship, but it seems that the Universe is offering me a new challenge. As a brief example (with the rest being in metaphor below)…I’ve felt the need to bring up things that I normally would not want to do so early in a relationship so the new Boy has a clear idea of what he is getting himself into. After much stumbling on my words, I told him I had no plans to ever get married (leaving out that if I ever change my mind, I want to get married outside the confines of four walls and by a woman). I can’t blame all of that on the Catholic Church…part of it has to do with my parents’ divorce, my young and married uncle dying before turning 30, and the narrative I created in childhood around that. But there is the religion class where we were told that the obligation in marriage was to procreate…and while I love kids I’ve never wanted them for myself (plus, Pacer is the best little girl I could ask for!). And the whole “two become one” thing always seemed skewed in the man’s favor. Finally, there’s the whole patriarchal and oppression thing that surrounds most religions…but that’s been written about more eloquently by others, so I’ll end this very long preface now.
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I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe
I try to cry
But I am drowning
Cleansed, I hear them say
But from a made up sin I did not commit
My clothes are white
But then my body grows, and its back to black
I run down the street on wobbly legs
I’m screaming:
Hear me
See me
Acknowledge me
All heads turn the other way.
I am but a ghost. A Ghost?
No, for I am a woman.
I trip and fall.
I am but a ghost with bloody knees
Is this my cross to bear?
I choose to wear only bones
To be more like a Man or further hidden,
I no longer know.
Still, without this chest
Without my life-giving blood flow
There’s less force to do the things that I am told
Like my body is only for him
And the children to come after
For that is what is required for me to become seen
If I am good
Am I good?
It is only years later that I inhabit my body again
That I realize it wants to sing, to dance
To come forth as only the feminine spirit can
So I choose to run
And run
And run
Miles, valley, rivers, and mountains later
I break free of the chains, my cross
Finally, I have found my Heaven within.
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The evening after writing this, I cam across this amazing video: Be a Lady They Said
A Dog and Her Girl 