#LinkYourLife has just passed it’s one year birthday and our hashtag community is thriving. Thanks to Shareen‘s warm and fuzzy recruitment tactics, Fridays are hopping both on Twitter and Facebook. #LinkYourLife has spun off in many directions beginning with first Fridays of the month when we tag with #LinkYourCompassion. There are the #LinkYourLife #lovequotes many of us have been creating and sharing as a way to appreciate the people we read through #LinkYourLife. We have worked to incorporate others’ tags (such as the awesome #ShareInspireConquer from @BestowingFire) and promote all
I love you most when you are drifting under the wings of nightmares my ear against the grain of your closed wooden door I miss you most when you sleep twisted in the fear you will slip the tether lose your one, small soul. Rest, child. I will hold your string you are the gift I prayed for when I fed blood to Mother Earth. All of my children struggle with nightmares, but especially one. I find myself waiting at his door listening with my heart as he whimpers.
I am coming through an intensely anxious period. In 2014, I had multiple surgeries culminating in a partial hysterectomy. I got to keep my ovary, but my uterus hadn’t been a team player for quite awhile. It had to go. The result was extreme hormonal confusion that sent me back to dark teen-ages. I was catapulted back into ADD and relived all my traumatic triggers, sometimes daily. During that time, an individual who had harmed me found me on Facebook and tried to reconnect. Um, no. I blocked that fool.
I was never able to skate backward, but I was an ace at taking the curves full speed in the skating rinks of my childhood. When I wasn’t coasting around the rink floors, I tried to recreate the soothing mood of the rink at home. I know what you’re thinking. Skating rinks are loud with flashing lights, ugly carpets, that old shoe smell and unstable crowds on wheels. All of that was overpowered by the hum of wheels against the wooden floor. That was part of the magic, part of
K., It is said we are all made of stardust (as if that evens the playing field) but you clearly cut yourself from your own cloth. I don’t know where I stand in relation to you, but in my mind you are walking backward up a very steep incline and I’m at the bottom with my neck craned and my eyes pierced by the sun wondering, “How does she do that in a skirt?” Life, maybe, wants to knock you down. I call bullshit. Not for the reason you’re thinking. I’ll
I’m sorry. I was hungry I guess? I’m not sure why it happened. You were there in one ultrasound. A shadow person. A double image. The doctor says I absorbed you. Mama says that makes me twice the woman I might have been. I missed you. I always set out a cup and saucer for you at tea parties. Put a mirror in your seat so I could find you in my corner vision, know what it might have been like to not be so alone. You were my greatest
There are two years of my life I don’t remember. They say your mind protects you when you are the most vulnerable, refusing to form memories. These two years occurred when another family was staying with us. The mother was abusive. I have two very strong memories from that period–one of which was being protected by my sibling from this woman when she was trying to beat me. I once worked with a therapist to repattern some memories. We travelled through my subconcious to the places I was stuck in
I sing in jazz clubs under the name Shadia. My following saw a swell in my mid-twenties. My voice has always been husky and a bit low. I love singing under dim lights to live music. I love having a secret life, somewhere I can go when parenting becomes too much. When I’m tired of the sun or the rain or the busy-making of today’s “music.” What I like about performing is that I’m seen, but I’m also part of the background. My voice is a prop for falling in
We ordered the firewood a year and a half ago. My neighbor has tried to buy it twice since. He has a fireplace insert that keeps his home considerably warmer than ours in Winter. He sends me text messages asking after the wood. I tell him no. What I want to do is step out on my porch and re-stack it. I want it tidy and under my office window against the brick of the house so that when the snow comes again, and it will, the wood is free
I sat at the table picking bits of ground lamb and tomato off the “pizza” on my plate. It was a quiet evening two weeks into my 2002 trip to Lebanon. The heat was oppressive. I wasn’t hungry. I also wasn’t thinking. My aunt’s eyes were discs when I looked up. She whispered my name in high-noted horror. I quickly withdrew my hands, embarrassed to be caught playing with my food at age 22. I cleaned my fingers with a napkin and folded the sfiha in half, taking my aunt’s
Possible triggers: scars, body horror, disordered eating and poor medical care The body remembers. These last two months have been filled with me running a body-memory obstacle course. I have struggled with depersonalization, derealization, disordered eating and body horror. My conscious forgets all that I have been through, but my body reminds me at every anniversary. Almost four years ago I had a tumor removed from my left orbital bone. I woke up to my own voice crying for my three-month-old daughter. She was placed in my arms briefly. My