"CREATE OR DIE."

Create or Die.  How dramatic.

This command makes me laugh tonight: create, die anyway. Create a LOT, die regardless.  Don't create--slow death.  Choose not to create--spiritual suicide.  So, create or die.

Create or die,
Create or Die,
CREATE OR DIE
Create
or
die.

A life poem.
One stanza.

Sufjan Stevens at the Masonic Temple this past Monday--an orgy of sound, soul, lights, ART.  Sacred creativity.  Profane and disappointing t-shirt, however.  "Hustler."  Really?  At one point in the show, the shadows shifted; my mind played tricks, and the letters shifted to "Freedom."  Or something similar.  I forgave.  Then they shifted back.  I wondered, "Do peoples' clothing choices really have THAT much power to impact my emotional experience?"  Disappointing, though, yes.  It would be nice to enjoy someone's art without having to "brush aside" the exploitation-called-humor.

“You can’t change your history. But you can choose to relinquish the anger, and you can choose to recognise that there’s no perfect way to cultivate a person. I believe motherhood is sainthood. That the work of a parent is the work of a saint – whether you choose to relinquish that or not.”
-Sufjan Stevens, to Dave Eggers, in:
http://www.theguardian.com/music/2015/mar/26/sufjan-stevens-dave-eggers-carrie-lowell-i-was-recording-songs-means-of-grieving

Recording songs as a means of grieving.  Yep, that resonates.  Create or die.  Create THEN die.  Create while dying.  Die trying.  Get busy living, or get busy dying.  NO DAY BUT TODAY! 

Fuck me. 

Earlier today I felt like I was going crazy.  Like, looking people in the eye, disassociated, caged animal backed into a corner trying to bite the caregiver kind of crazy.  People backing away from me while I looked them in the eye kind of crazy.  People retreating into themselves by being near me kind of crazy.  Feeling disconnected from myself and soul kind of crazy. 

Dancing helps(ed).  Closing my eyes always helps.  I pushed Simone out of my "birth canal" for four hours with my eyes closed.  Sacred silence.  No C-section baby in my vagina's cards--and I'm grateful for that.  Thank you, God/dess, for salvaging some empowerment in my home-birth-cum-hospital birthing plan transfer.  Thank you for my life, although I nearly constantly feel guilty and ashamed that I am not doing enough to honor YOU, It, me, them, All Of It.  Like, haven't I been around far too long to feel this sorry for myself?  And, will I REALLY choose sugar over singing?

Fuck this. 

So, my soul drove me to Safe House Center tonight for a Speak Out.  I picked my daughter up from school at 5:42 PM with only my car keys in my pocket (id-phone-money-purse at home; it was that kind of crazy-collapse day) and knew I was going to Safe House and I had to be there by 6 PM.  Surprised to see so many cars when I pulled up, I asked the four female volunteers who greeted me in the lobby, "Am I in the right place?"
"For the Speak Out?  Yes, it hasn't started yet."
"Oh, there is a Speak Out tonight?  How interesting.  This is my first time here, and my soul drove me here."
"You should mention that when you are sharing your story."

If you are unfamiliar with Speak Outs, they are a 1970s second-wave feminist "consciousness-raising" event where survivors of violence share their stories in a safe, supportive setting to break the silence, the shame, the stigma surrounding "survivorship."  Survivor: one who was victimized but is no longer a victim.  Or a perpetrator.  So I'm not there yet, at least today.  Not with people retreating into themselves and backing away when I look them in the eyes.

I felt like I was going to hurt people.  I could feel my anger oozing out of my pores, demanding that the present-day people in my life are responsible for noticing my pain and facilitating my healing.  As if my healing were anyone's responsibility except for my own.  I have to want it.  And I've been so consumed with bitterness, I have not even cared enough to want it.  My hope as I write this is that G*d will carry me through this doubt, this mistrust, this anger, this pain, these waves of collapse-bitterness-despair just like I've been carried through before.  Perhaps this is an experiential faith walk.  I'm starting to feel "faith" in my heart and body, not just my mind.  And, strangely, this is when I'm starting to come into contact with my real rage and aggression.

Peter Levine councils that the restoration of instinctual (self-protective) aggression is integral to healing trauma ("Waking the Tiger").

Here we go.

Onwards and upwards!