Talk About Your Sky

This hits too close to home. I’m crying and covered in chills. “She wasn’t well enough to know how sick she was” is a 10 word summary of my life since 7th/8th grade. I started cutting and being suicidal in 8th. I had full intentions of killing myself in March 1997, at the ripe old age of 14. This didn’t come to me as an illness or symptom of an illness. This was: I’m a terrible person, everyone hates me, and it would be a favor to everyone if I just died. This carried forward til present: it still happens. I finally know symptom versus reality, but it has taken so much work to find that truth. I can’t even say medicine is how I found it. Therapy wasn’t either. It was finding myself, my true self, and seeing I was beautiful and worthy of love. Most especially from me.

People don’t understand that mental illness robs you of the capacity to experience love because it tells you no one loves you. It tells you how awful you are. People say always to “believe in yourself” but what if yourself says everyone hates you? You are evil? No one loves you. You don’t deserve love. God hates you? I believed until I finally learned my brain lies.

This is the analogy I use to explain bipolar. Imagine someone who sees the sky is pink. They call this sky blue, because everyone else says the sky is blue. You don’t know what blue looks like, because blue is pink for you. You don’t know to call it pink, you’ve never known it was a color other than blue. It’s always just been how you see your sky. How can you make someone understand their Sky could be a different color? How can I make you understand I don’t see your blue? How can we ever understand that I don’t have any capacity to understand other skies or that my sky is different? And even if my sky is different, it’s beautiful too.

Life changed when I realized my pink sky is the most beautiful one In the world because it’s mine. It’s me. My challenges made my strengths, and my pain made my beauty. This mother, lost to us forever, fought similar battles as me, and she lost, her husband lost, and her children lost. It’s stories like this that make me care for myself more, and speak louder. Everyone has different skies, none of us see the same blue, but that makes you beautiful not broken. Because all the broken parts of me are all the best parts of me too. My mind works differently. I am a genius, and I am also a person who suffers in her mind.

Bipolar affects every aspect of my life and my relationships. I have lost so many people because of this illness including the man who was my world. I can understand the pain Jon Davis in right now, because I remember the pain Evan and I have been in. Jon Davis and his wife divorced in 2016, and it’s so difficult to convey what it’s like to love someone who can’t love themselves. Medically and chemically can’t feel love. It’s like water in a holey bucket trying to get a drink when you’re dying of thirst.

Mental illness was what tore our marriage apart, and healing mental illness is what brought our marriage together. But not before I almost killed myself – either with my addictions or by my own hand. And Evan helped save my life. I hope Jon doesn’t feel the guilt that he couldn’t save hers. I could have left my kids motherless, even though saving them my pain was what started me realizing I was not well enough to realize how sick I was.

Rest In Peace Deven. You’re an angel who graced the world with beauty, until your broken wings took you home for peace and rest.

If these words resonate, start talking and don’t stop. Don’t keep this pain inside. The most beautiful part of you is everything you hide away, because the people who struggle are the people who are admired for overcoming. Talk, please. Share your story. Share your struggles. You will quickly see how many other pink skies there are. None of us are alone.

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Raisin’ Em Loved

It’s not always I can feel like the best mom ever, but last night I had the chance to maybe shift Livie’s perception. It all started with “Mom, girls are way better than boys, right?” I said no, not at all. I think we’re all amazing.

She thought for a second, “well girls are way different than boys, right?” This is what I said

Livie, everyone is different from everyone. People get so hung up on things like I am a girl or I am a boy or whatever, but what people keep missing is that no boy is like another boy and no girl is like another girl and no boy is like another girl. We are all completely different. A lot of people are scared of that and they try to be like everyone else. They don’t like what makes them different and they hide behind things that make them feel the same or better than people. But no one is better than anyone on this planet. We all see, think, and feel differently. I am a girl and you are a girl, but you and I are completely different.

Imagine if you painted a picture and you only used one color. That would be kind of boring and you might even have trouble seeing the painting. That’s how our world is. Each of us is our own color, we’re all completely unique and that makes the world so much more interesting and better.

You and I could see the same painting and I could hate it and you could love it. Thats just like life. I believe god gave each of us special gifts and talents that no one else can do like we can, because it’s our special gift. No one can see the world through your eyes and there is not one person on the planet like you. You are it. There’s only one you. There’s lots and lots of girls and lots and lots of boys, but there’s only one livie. No one has your special gifts. It doesn’t matter if you’re a boy or a girl, because you’re you. And the worst thing you could do is hide those gifts away and try to be like everyone else. You need to always be yourself and never be afraid to be yourself.

Look at lady Gaga! No one in the world is like her and look how powerful she is. Not because she’s rich or famous: because she doesn’t give a crap what anyone thinks of her. She’s always herself. There is nothing more powerful than that. There’s nothing more powerful than loving you and being you, because there’s only one of you. That’s the coolest thing in the world!

Livie did a handstand when we got outta the car, gave me a big hug, and said “you’re right mommy, I love you. Nobody is like you.”

I don’t always feel like a great mom, but last night, I felt like I’m doing a lot right. Livie especially has a growth mentality, and I’m teaching the boys too: endless possibility and no good or bad, just life.

I was having a shitty day all day. No energy, cranky as hell, and not on point with mom duties. As soon as Evan got home, I went for a long walk to shut myself up and I came

Back ready to be the mom my kids deserve instead of being the mom consumed by hormones and chemicals. This is all ostensibly bad and yet: God presented me this opportunity with her. If I can help my kids see the beauty in themselves before the world tells them how to be like everyone else, that they’re deficient and need to buy shit to feel better, and they need to have people like them to feel okay, I don’t care about much else. My metrics of success are different than most. I don’t care about anything beyond: do my kids love themselves and know how loved they are by me? Success. Every time I speak to them, hug them, and kiss them, I teach them love. My words aren’t always good, my temper can often be short, because I teach them imperfection, humanity, and forgiveness too. I don’t want them using me as how to feel about themselves. I want them to love themselves independent of me. The only way I can do that is to love myself, and show them I love myself even When I screw up. I don’t want them to think I’m perfect or know everything. I want them to know they are always loved even when they feel the most unloveable. Cause it’s that truth that gets me outta bed and on walks when I don’t even want to deal with life.

I Don’t Care Anymore

Vinnie Paul died June 22, 2018. I have been mourning a man I have never met, except in the music that nourishes my soul, since that date. Pantera found me when I was an angsty teenager hiding behind a keyboard in AOL chatrooms. I barely had any real friends. My honest problem was I was terrified to be myself outside of the written world. When I was writing, I felt like I could be honest, and I could be myself. It was not even so much I was afraid to own my words, it was I was afraid of myself. Everything about me felt wrong. It started then, and it’s only recently become a thing of my past. I mean, as of this week, it has become a thing of my past.

My life has a distinct soundtrack, and there are several Pantera songs that play these memories. Cemetary Gates and crying in my bed because I wished I was dead or while I was cutting myself trying to understand why it felt so good to hurt. Suicide Note Part 1 & 2 for obvious reasons. This Love and taking Evan to a strip club for Valentine’s Day because I am the best, coolest, awesome-st girlfriend/wife/best friend (and so very humble). The memory of sitting there drinking beers and watching a chick in camo strip to This Love brings a smile to my face every time. Or the memory of long drives with Evan and me doing interpretive finger dancing to Walk (that’s probably one I would have to show you, it’s very “special”). Pantera was one of the bands that got me through teens and 20’s, a soundtrack to a younger me.

When Dimebag was murdered, I was devastated. I don’t think I had seen Evan cry before the day the Zakk Wylde tribute video came out. I’m talking huge heartbroken sobs so hard he made me sob, and I think it was more from shock. (He may not appreciate that overshare!) I remember being so depressed thinking how Vinnie had to watch his brother die before his eyes. The pain, I couldn’t imagine it.

I believe pain is the precursor to beauty. I believe the most beautiful people in the world are covered in scars that are naked to the eye. I believe the kindest, gentlest, most compassionate people have spent many days in hell, and of those, many of us have put ourselves in that very hell. But what about someone who had to suffer a loss like that? Who had to watch his brother’s life bleed out, as he sat helpless on stage at a concert? Can that pain be transformed? Can it be transmuted?

Of course it can. And it did. A supergroup emerged from this tragedy. Chad Gray, who is one of my all time favorite singers – probably second only to Corey Motherfucking Taylor – started HELLYEAH. Vinnie came on as the drummer. I’ll be honest, I did not pay any attention to them when they started. It was 2006, the year I got married, bought a house, and became a mother to my first born son. It was 4 years after the adoption and Evan and I started dating. Until that time, our lives were filled with music – particularly metal, particularly Pantera. In my 20’s, I lost my connection to music because I spent most of my time waddling around pregnant and becoming the world’s most fucked up Stepford Wife.

After Evan and I separated, I found music again. I think my soul had been starved and cut off beyond the brink of sanity prior to that. Remember Interview with the Vampire, when Lestat comes back after being in the swamp and he talks about feeding off crocodiles? That’s how my soul felt. Slowly, music nursed me back to life. HELLYEAH came into my life 2 important times. The first was when my best friend surprised me with tickets to Mayhem, and my journey home to music and myself tentatively started. My marriage was struggling, it was the summer before my hospitalizations started. HellYeah was playing, and I stood in the sun drinking beers with my best friend and remembering why music was everything I needed in life. They released Unden!able in 2016, and I remembered I had forgotten about them. I listened to I Don’t Care Anymore for months. It was incredible hearing Dime’s guitar again, and I kept thinking how much peace that must have given Vinnie. The song fucking rocks, and became a guiding mantra for me. I wanted to stop caring. Not apathy about life, but apathy about opinions. Why do so many of us care so much what other people think? Why do so many of us spend our lives ruled by the court of public opinion?

That song became the soundtrack to me starting writing again. What did I have to hide? What was I so fucking scared of? Maybe I am half decent at writing and people will like it? Maybe I suck ass and people will not like it? Who gives a shit? Why was I hiding so far back in the closet of my life?! At this point, I was still struggling with whether or not I believed in Catholicism but tentatively taking steps towards philosophy, Buddhism, and pan-theology. So, either I have one life to get my ass to heaven or one life to set me up for more lives based on this life. (That is so rudimentary it is not fair to either philosophy, but that was my fear.) I was terrified of going to hell. The me inside of me was damned, despicable, unworthy of love. For most of my life, I believed my parents hated me. Not because of them, not because of anything, but because I was convinced no one could love me. It’s why I became so obsessed with music. It was my first coping skill. It was the first time I felt I wasn’t alone. I have cried so many tears to so many albums, as so many of us have. Music is like Novocain for your mind and cashmere sweater for your soul, right?

This song started a fire in me unlike any other. I just wanted to stop the bullshit. It’s taken me two years to really, genuinely truly stop the bullshit. I have barely been able to write. Every time I would sit down to type, I would lose my shit. I’ve talked about the psychosis a lot lately, because I have to. I have to heal this wound. It’s been gaping and festering and oozing as I’ve been gingerly cleansing myself (and feeding off alligators) slowly. So slowly. Part of my psychosis centered around blogging. My old blog, Mahbuttitches, caused so much seemingly irreparable harm to my family and people I love. I used it as an outlet to be angry, to be a victim, but to heal. I started putting pieces of puzzles together, and I started seeing all of my demons, my darkness, my shadows. All of the pain I had caused myself, the things I had done to myself for 2 decades, it was too much.

A mind can only handle so much, and true to my nature, I pushed too far. But you can only break out of your comfort zone by pushing to far. Muscles need to rip and tear and be broken down to grow anew. Destruction breeds creation. I finally see the beauty in how epically I burned myself alive, because I do believe the meditation caused the psychosis, and I do believe I caused my psychosis by not taking care of myself. I was unmedicated, I was refusing to listen to anyone telling me I was bipolar, and I was angry at the world. I was a blindfolded dragon who lit herself on fire. Or, apt to my tattoo, a phoenix. And I’m not saying this because it’s anything but how I see it. I like to see life as poetry, forgive me for too much description.

Then Vinnie died,  and the timing was aligned. Don’t for a second take I’m saying Vinnie died to save me from my sins, it’s just synchronicity at work. The constant ripples of consciousness that create the mystery, beauty, and surprise of life. Like music, there is no end to the experience, if you just shut up and enjoy. Bands like HELLYEAH transcend the mundane consciousness and use poetic metaphors triggering insight, growth, and beauty that makes my words feel hollow. Listen to the words, in HELLYEAH, in Mudvayne, if Chad isn’t a singing Buddha, I’ll eat my hat. The man went through hell – listen to Hush, and he comes out of his own self discovery, a similar path I’m walking, to see his own power, the power of his truth, his voice, and what he can make people feel with his honesty and vulnerability. This is art.

I put Hush on as soon as I finished reading Vinnie died, which I had really weirdly, started listening to HELLYEAH again obsessively maybe a few weeks prior to this death because of Hush. It came up on my Daily Mix on Spotify, and a few songs later, Moth played and I could not stop listening to them. Seriously, the lyrics in just those two songs – mindblowing wisdom and companionship.

It’s August 9th, and I have been listening to HELLYEAH since May? At this point? Almost nonstop, I can’t stop listening, it just makes me feel everything I need, it’s like a treasure map into opening my heart, opening my mouth, and writing again. I’m telling you, the full circle thing is overwhelming. I remember playing I don’t care anymore as I was typing about Evan and I fixing our marriage. I was terrified to write about it, because I was still worried about people thinking I was an idiot. It was that song that kicked me in the heart to STOP FUCKING CARING. I love the man, who gives a shit? He’s my best friend, and I don’t want to walk this journey without him by my side. Forgiveness is my terms, not theirs. That day, June 10th, was our 12th anniversary (we never actually divorced, I don’t think we could handle it…). Our 11th anniversary we were just living together and terrified of how bad it could turn out. Our 12th, we finally stopped lying to ourselves and admitted we wanted to get back together. We put our wedding rings on that night. My left hand feels whole again. Because of a song by HELLYEAH.

I am so addicted to this band, and every time I hear Vinnie drum, I am so overwhelmed with this bittersweetness. I’m so glad he has been woven back into the fabric of us, and I know he’s here, he’s with his brother, and he is immortal. I’m not even saying that from a spiritual perspective, I am saying it from literal reality. His songs live on through us, my obsession with HELLYEAH has led to my kids becoming obsessed with HELLYEAH. (I’m a terrible mother who does not censor her children’s music, because I feel the emotional value, healing, subconscious triggering/awakening is far more valuable than them avoiding the inevitable F-Bomb, from their sailor mouthed mother or the many artists we all adore. I also don’t care what you do with your kids, heh)

The point in that is: through two generations, his drumming lives on. In me, and in them. I listen to so much music from my parents, so there’s every chance my grandchildren will listen to his music. I’m obsessed with Westworld, and the line from Ghost Nation: “You only live as long as the last person who remembers you.” has been burning like a hot coal in my mind. Vinnie contributed to music that saved my life – over and over and over again. There were so many times I wanted to kill myself, there were so many times I pulled myself back from pushing deeper on my wrist. There have been so many times I almost let go of the steering wheel, and it’s music that stopped me every time. Because I watched these souls turn their pain to beauty and in that transformation, they have become immortal. They will be remembered long, long after they are gone. They will be passed down in stories of concerts, or drives with the windows down and the music up. They will live in memories of pain and joy. And every time they are remembered, they’re here with us.

I can spend hours, hell days with Vinnie, and I always have. Their music unlocked the truth in me: I couldn’t write anymore, because I had to learn to talk first. To stand firm, beautiful, and strong in my truth. To take myself out of the closet in my skull and smile genuinely into this world. See the beauty in everything. Write the beauty in everything. My psychosis was the greatest blessing I’ve ever had. I see life is music. I am free, because I am me. I can express myself like I’ve been watching, learning, and healing. Music. Vinnie’s drums, Chad’s voice, Christian & Tom’s guitars, and Kyle’s bass have been playing the soundtrack to my journey home to myself, to my writing, to the point where this all began:

I don’t care anymore. I don’t care what  you say. I don’t play by the same rules, anyway. I won’t be there anymore, so get out of my way, let me by. I got better things to do with my time…I don’t care anymore.

And as long as I am able, I will remember and I will write about this journey and every immortal that is helping me scatter my soul into the universe.

How about you? If you made it this far (AND THANK YOU!) what’s the band that has profoundly affected you? What song? Comment here or link to your own memory post about an artist that saved or changed your life. Tell me about the song that makes you float away from this world, or the vocalist, let’s just celebrate the beauty of music, and especially Vinnie Fucking Paul. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your gift. I will see you in the eyes of my children, because you are a reason I can still gaze in them.

Awakening the Goddess Within

I am pleased to share my newest poem, Awakening the Goddess Within.  The YouTube link takes you to the video with images and my voice recording. Please check it out and subscribe to my YouTube Channel for more original content.

I’ve hated my poor body for as long as I can think

I stared into this mirror wishing my fat would shrink

Diets upon diets, but they just called me fat

Until I started starving, feeling strong though I was weak

I’d jam my fingers down my aching throat

Retch burns as it burst forth

Sobbing in the toilet

Too sick to see my worth

Retching until bleeding and losing clumps of hair

But still it begged the question:

Is this life worth more than death?

I couldn’t stand to see me naked

Slivered silver stretch marked flesh

All I saw were rolls and numbers, shadowing the love

I tortured this poor body

With cuts, with men, with hate

Smiling when I’m starving

Puking when I ate

They insisted I must lose it

But all I heard was hate

I sacrificed my mind

My smiles

And my time

When they said to lose it, I sacrificed myself

When they said to lose it, there was no thought for health

Slivered silver knife wounds slice

Torturing the pounds and sense of self

For the sweetness of changing scales

Irrelevant extras vs larges

Even though I am no fool

If they want you to feel sexy, I could be a 12

But just two racks over, 18 and purging hell

The hatred coursed inside of me

A black beast upon my soul

I found those who could feed me

The pain I craved to know

If you were fool enough to love me,

I’d be sure to make you change

I love you could never fulfill me

When I hate you is what I crave

It wasn’t until I started seeing

The goddess here inside

Standing naked and resplendent

A Venus in her shell

Aphrodite’s tears are blood red

As so many of us know

They tell you you’re unworthy

They tell you to lose those pounds

They tell you that some makeup

Is the cure to all your frowns

They tell you to win the guy now

They tell you to keep him close

They tell you all the ways to hate you

Because they want you on your toes

You need to consume their fixes

Unworthy little hoes

It wasn’t until I saw the sacred

Silver slivers of a tiger

Who’s been to war in me

The scarred skin of a soldier

When the treaty begged for peace

This body has created life now

My body nurtured four

They just sat in judgement

Some called me a fucking whore

Because I just can’t win here

And I no longer care

I’m not here to please them

And I won’t make my heaven hell

I came play and love here

Because I am the goddess inside

I am naked in the moonlight

Silver slivers of my soul

Transcendence of Selene,

Transforming silver into gold

I am one with love and nurture

I am nature’s warrior soul

I’m in love with crown to root here

I cannot please them worth a damn

They say to hide away here

So I flay my soul more bare

I shine brightest in my darkness

Because I won the war in me here

And I no longer have a care

Enjoying my work? Is it resonating? Check out my other poem, Synchronicity. Please share, and connect with me across Social media via the below links:

Daina (OurBeautifulLies)- WordPress, My personal FB, OBL Blog Page on Facebook, Twitter, InstagramYouTube Channel

From Fear to Love: How my muses saved my writing

Inspiration comes to me like a flash. If I’m not prepared with something to write, I typically end up dropping everything and typing it on my phone. I’ve lost too many good epiphanies otherwise. The tough ones are when I am getting inspired out the wazoo as I’m trying to go to sleep. My muses don’t seem to have a circadian rhythm.

There are three muses in my life who similarly aren’t big on the concept of letting me sleep: my kids. Their inability to give me quiet time or an extra hour to sleep in notwithstanding, they are my everything. They are the reason I write and have been since I started. It was the mantra “My children will never cry my tears.” that started this journey.

I knew deeply if I did not stop my shit, I would pass it on to them. I remember thinking how they couldn’t know what I was doing when I was purging or starving, but the look of relief on my daughter’s face when I suggested we stop and get some food proved me dead wrong. I know how I speak to them will become their inner monologue. I’m human, I screw up, I get angry, I say dumb shit. I’ve always feared I was ruining their lives, I was screwing them up, etc. etc. Hurt people hurt people, and I was so terrified of hurting them. My pain radiated to my marriage until it imploded, it’s a natural assumption to fear what it could do to them.

All of that fear was the impetus to write, because I knew I could figure it out if I just wrote about it. I could have never expected the journey my writing has taken me on, but the more important reality is how much healing my writing has brought. I am world’s apart from the woman who started writing 2 years ago, and thank God for it.

Now, though, fear has no place in my life. Anything brought from a place of fear can only bring forth more fear, which is what happened when my mind shattered under the weight of my own pressure. This obsession with being well took me far, far down a rabbit hole of my psyche and shadows. It was a wonderful blessing wrapped in a curse. Carl Jung said, “Nothing more profoundly affects the mind of a child than the unlived life of the parent.” What he’s saying is we all project our fears on each other, most especially our kids. I didn’t want to project me not following my dreams on them. But, on my road to recovery, I connected with the reality: my writing will never be what it must be if it’s not born from a place of love. It’s only within the past month I’ve been able to write like I used to. Raw, honest, Me. I feel as though the words fall out of my fingertips and it’s meditation in action.

The shift was so simple, I don’t know why it did not occur to me sooner. Before, I wrote to save the children from my biggest fear: myself. Now, I write to save the children from their biggest challenges: themselves, society, and all the well meaning fools that will tell them now to follow their dreams. Then, as my kids get older, the instructions to chase dreams will be recanted and they’ll be told to get a real job. How many of us had our dreams shattered by a well meaning loved one? How many of us have an artist inside begging to come out while we sit behind a keyboard at a job we wish was anything else and make someone else rich, or make someone else’s dream come true?

My kids don’t listen to me worth a damn. I used to think talking about how they can do anything, etc. was enough, but the simple evidence of asking them to clean their rooms shows how well they listen. The same reality spurring my fear is the reality spurring my love: Kids watch and learn by example. If I am secretly starving myself, my kids are learning to hate their bodies. If I am sitting and writing, promoting, and actively pursuing my dream, my kids are learning to believe in themselves, their gifts, and their dreams.

This, to me, is my sacred duty as a mother. There are too many children trapped inside adults who were told they couldn’t cut it. There are too many of us full of doubt, remorse, regret, and confusion. This is probably going to sound weird, but it’s like killing Santa Claus over and over again. We tell our children there is magic in the world, we tell them Santa can do all of these incredible things. Then, when they’re old enough or when a kid on the playground decides to, we tell them it was a lie. We kill magic. Likewise, we tell the kid who wants to be an astronaut, firefighter, or artist they can do anything they set their minds to. When the chips are down, and it’s time to graduate high school, we encourage practicality and mortgage sized student loan debt.

If we starve our inner artist, or our inner child, look at the suffering we bring into ourselves. Depression and anxiety: how much of this is repressed dreams and gifts? I get so much anxiety if I am not writing, especially if I am having lots of ideas and I’m “too busy” to do anything with them. I write as much as I do just to stay on top of myself. Otherwise, I get overloaded, and I start panicking, and I’ll slump in depression. I mean, Christ, depression and repression sound pretty damn similar no?

Why are so many artists diagnosed ADHD, Bipolar, anxious, or depressed? This is our gift manifesting the wrong way. The sensitivity we have to life is our gift wrapped in a curse. We cannot express the mysteries, beauty, and perfection of art without feeling it immensely. We all know words are a pittance to reality, when we express pain or love, it’s nothing compared to truth. Yet our words come close, because of our gifts. If showing my kids the paths to their dreams, self worth, and self love is my sacred duty as a mother, writing about the beauty of reality is my sacred duty to life. Being completely authentic and truthful me, free of the bonds of people’s opinions, free of the bonds of fear, and free of repressed expression is my sacred duty to myself – my true self.

I can’t and won’t put my kids through a journey of trying to reconnect with something that was once crystal clear. When I was in 8th grade, I promised my teacher I’d dedicate my first book to her. There was not a shred of doubt I’d be a writer then. 21 years later, I’m finally “hey I should do something about that writing thing I liked to do…” I had so many dreams when I was younger. I was going to be POTUS, too. Dreams beget more dreams. I’m living my first dream now: I’m (technically) a stay at home mom raising 3 kids. I always saw that, I just didn’t understand the timing. They didn’t need me as a SAHM when they were babies, they need me now. Divine timing works that way, and it’s necessary to trust that. If you make your dreams known, worlds move to make that dream come true.

The people strong enough to step into their dream are the ones who make their dreams come true. The people who repress their dreams are the ones who have the shadows of regret and remorse. The only way I can be an example to my kids is to step into my dream and be a writer. It doesn’t matter the scale, I trust the universe on that one. They just need to see and hear me being a writer. Today. Not tomorrow, not one day. If I want to be a writer, I am a writer. Every time I press publish anywhere, I am a writer. That’s what they see. When my brain starts telling me I cannot, I picture the three of them, and I say of course I can. I have the best inspiration in the world. I have the best fan base in the world. My children.

How many of us are starving artists inside? I’m not talking financially. I am talking we have a muse, we  have a vision, we have a gift, and we are starved for expression. We take that gift, and shove it in the back of our psyche because it’s not practical.  Thank God for my children, otherwise I never would have started trying. I would have lied to myself to my deathbed and wondered where my life went. I have only truly experienced life to its fullest when I saw my dreams were already coming true, and all I had to do was step into them.  I hope, if you are struggling with your dream or believing in yourself, this inspires you to take the first steps. That’s how every journey begins.

What about you? Are you living your dreams? Who inspires you to live your dreams? If the answer is no, are you going to change it? 

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Daina (OurBeautifulLies):

 

 

A Tale of Synchronicity (Part 2)

A Tale of Synchronicity (Part 1)

Yesterday, I wrote about the overall connections and experience of the mural. Today, I am honored to share the poem inspired by the mural. This poem was written sitting indian style watching Leah & Rachel paint at about midnight or so at Shanteel Yoga Sanctuary. 

I don’t think I have ever written a poem more easily. The words fell out of my pen. This mural is a vortex of honesty, inspiration, and authenticity. It’s as if your soul has to leap out of your mouth by its side. Shanteel has that effect on you. There is no room for a mask in her. Our hearts and souls are in every brushstroke, and I’m so honored to have been included in the manifestation. Now, on to the poetry!

Feel free to subscribe to my new YouTube channel – I will be posting more original poetry, and possibly doing some random videos. 

Synchronicity

When you close your eyes, what do you see?

The glistening pools of infinity,

Or are you mourning upon a desolate sea?

Where do you come from?

Who is your home?

Where is the space between you and your soul?

Who are you without the name you were given?

What is the space between your heart and your living?

Have you ever met someone and found destiny?

Did anyone tell you you’re too blind to see,

Cascading the ripples in your blackened sea,

Triggering a sensation of the web binding you and me?

There’s no time too distant

No day too long

No one to break it

The ties too strong

Breathe in, embrace it

Breathe out, face it

Your destiny has happened,

Don’t let your thoughts replace it.

The wheels start turning

The moment sparks ignite

Let presence consume you

The wrongs will always be right

Trust in yourself

Trust in other

The world is creation

A space beyond limitation

See the human behind the eyes

Rise above your own wolf lie cries

We’re a tapestry interwoven, perfection’s bliss

Spots on canvas, lips of inspiration’s kiss

Paint your dreams into realities color

See yourself when you hear another

When you close your eyes, know it’s the space you’re creating

A dream in the stars, or nightmares unabating

In the darkest night, the dawn of new moon

Open your heart, let your dreams make you swoon

Whisper dreams to the brightest star

Trusting and Knowing that’s who you are

Make your wish, it is granted

As a tree born when the seed is planted

As stardust in sky, your tears were collected

Remove the dust cloths of the dreams you neglected

Our Mother will guide you to divine destination

The only delay is your own hesitation

Feel the wisdom inside of this rhyme

The only separation is the illusion of time.

Social Media Links – Let’s connect!!!

Daina (OurBeautifulLies)- WordPress, My personal FB, OBL Blog Page on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram

Rachel – Instagram

Leah – Instagram, Facebook

If you are nearby, please experience: Shanteel Yoga Sanctuary – Website, Facebook

A Tale of Synchronicity (Part 1)

If synchronicity is an unfamiliar term, I’ll summarize it like this: seemingly unconnected events that work together to put you in the best (or worst) place possible. Carl Jung said, “Synchronicity is an ever present reality for those who have eyes to see” For me, it has always been: everything happens for a reason. Synchronicity taught me to come away from the illusion of instant gratification and trust everything serves to bring me where I’m supposed to be, even if it makes absolutely no sense at the time. It makes it easier for me to relax and be present in the moment. Synchronicity is often talked about it relation to repeating numbers, probably the most popular one is 11:11

There is no end to possibility when you trust that all is well. I could not say that until I finally stopped doubting myself – I was seeing repeating numbers constantly and literally asking out loud “What the hell could possibly be okay, I’m a mess!!!!” and it wasn’t until I accepted I do not know better than the universe, and if She’s telling me everything’s okay, I should say thank you. Once that click happened, every piece of the puzzle I will attempt to tell fell into place within months. This story is a series of dominoes, with even more connections I am leaving out for the sake of clarity and brevity.

Leah Painting

Did you ever meet someone and have a feeling they are meant to be in your life? I have always held a belief that everyone I meet is for a purpose because I believe everything in life happens for a reason. I learned this when 19 and placed my first daughter with her adoptive parents. I understood the pain was worth it, because if I had not dated her biological father, I would never have met my husband and had my three children. I have always been able to find the bright side of life, so to speak, and I have always found when I sought it, I would find it rather quickly.

That was until I met a man named Jake. I cannot explain why I felt the way I did about him, or why I allowed the relationship to become what it was. He somehow a catalyst to me going on a journey of looking harshly at myself in the mirror, healing my traumas, battling my demons, whatever term you’d like to use. I finally started writing again after giving up on myself, I stopped killing myself with alcohol and eating disorders, allowing myself to be used by men, and on and on. I started, instead, practicing yoga, meditation, journaling, and on and on. The pain of unrequited love is exquisite. It pushes you to darkness you did not know existed. There are so many songs and works of art distilled from the place of a broken heart. Sometimes I would joke my emotional poetry about him alone was worth the price of admission.

I’ve spent two and a half years becoming myself. After my life shattered and I went to the mental hospital again, I tried to rebuild the pieces. I scrapped that and decided to just be who I wanted to be, instead of what everyone had told me I should be. I think that is a journey we all must go on. Maybe not to the extremes I had to go to, but I’m stubborn. I really liked being miserable, clearly. I’ve always been grateful to him for that.

The pain of Jake helped me become who I am, but I struggled with accepting that as closure. I could not get over this dude, it was like MRSA. It would get a little better, then come back with more crap. I spent 2 years pining for a man who literally told me over and over he did not love me. I spent 2 years begging, messaging, stalking?, a dude that blocked me, rejected me, etc. But this taught me how pain and beauty are an inseparable process. Pain teaches you to appreciate the beauty, and beauty heals the pain.

This week, the pain taught me to appreciate the beauty when this journey and chapter came to a close. I had met a woman named Rachel through Jake. I kept in touch with her since  because the second I met her, I knew she was special. Have you ever had that? Where you just know this person is meaningful? We barely saw each other – 2 times since! But, she stayed in my heart and mind thanks to Facebook. She posted an incredible mural earlier this year. My friend Claudine, who owns Shanteel Yoga Studio, mentioned she wanted a mural, so I did not hesitate to recommend Rachel.

This is Rachel’s first mural. If you don’t see why I recommended her immediately and why Claudine hired her immediately, please get your eyes checked. It’s almost impossible to believe she and Leah could outdo this!

A few months later, Rachel and her friend Leah began work on one of the most beautiful and inspiring pieces of art I have ever seen. When I think of synchronicity, I think of stars aligning. It’s a series of events that put you in a place you are meant to be. In this instance, Jake put me in a place to meet two women who created a masterpiece, and changed my life for the better. The three of us – Rachel, Leah, and I – spent the week of the mural creation bonding,  inspiring, and changing each other’s lives. I am not exaggerating when I say, I’d go through this all over again for this project, and to meet these women. The pain I have overcome makes the appreciation of the sweetness, beauty, and magic that much more pleasant.

I keep thinking this is only the beginning. This mural came from a place of healing, opening our hearts, and expressing our souls. The only way this is possible is from synchronicity. I went from doubting myself, doubting my belief in how the world works, to seeing I was being impatient. Everything happens in the time it must. There were so many pieces of this puzzle that had to fall in place. Shanteel opening, Rachel painting, Leah and Rachel meeting, and me recommending them. The synchronicity of these events alone is a magnificent work of art, and my words don’t do it justice. The mural they created, the poetry it is inspiring, the healing, and the loving connections and community this is building is transcendent. A chance meeting while I was on a bad date began a  journey towards immortality. Leah, Rachel and I put our souls in the mural. In art and love, we are eternal.

This story taught me the greatest lessons: patience, trust, but most importantly: to appreciate the ever present reality of synchronicity – this week gave us all eyes to see it.

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Please follow along as I develop this story further. This is one tiny piece of the mural, a silly selfie of me (glasses) and my two new sisters.  We will all be unveiling more pictures across our social media in the coming days. They say a picture says a thousand words, but I say this one has only one word: Joy! Please follow us on this amazing journey by following these links and experiencing beautiful art:

Daina (OurBeautifulLies)- WordPress, My personal FBOBL Blog Page on FacebookTwitterInstagram

Rachel – Instagram

Leah – Instagram, Facebook

If you are nearby, please experience: Shanteel Yoga Sanctuary – Website, Facebook

🌹🔮 Rosa 🌹💫

Holy Shit, this is an incredible piece of work!!!!

BRAIN FREEZE

The rose speaks of love silently, in a language known only to the heart.♥️It started with a wink and a gorgeous smile, on the Sparkling Planet we planted a seed. And from out of its poetic soul, the most beautiful idea was conceived.🌹

It was watered by a couples romantic raindrops, and shined on daily by their love rays. Fertilized by the strongest of relationships, a flower was created that day.

But this wasn’t your garden variety flower, it was much more special than that. A plant of pure romance named Rosa, and this rose was a treat to look at.

A stem equipped with green leafs, it stood rather sturdy and stout. A thorn protruding from each side, only to let you know this rose would stick out.

Rose petals made like wings, all of them with a dark red tint. Each outlined in gold, when the…

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Love in blue and black – A collab — Despite my deepest thoughts — Short Prose

Poetry and music: a collaboration with my dear friend Ankit my love, i speak to you through centuries of pain trees are spinning barren branches in the air when loneliness rains on blue hills i crush my heart so yours can still beat listen ocean waves embrace the moon’s pale chest instead of tears i […]

via Love in blue and black – A collab — Despite my deepest thoughts — Short Prose