Oh Monkey…

Sun Wukong, king of the monkeys, trickster extraordinaire. How much more powerful is he when he’s coupled with fire, as he is in this coming new year?

Very potent, apparently.

The last few days have been a study in drama, with multiple lessons letting me know that I’m not as centered as I thought myself to be, not quite as enlightened as I flattered myself to be, and definitely not quite as graceful as I want to be.

In less than 72 hours, I’ve managed to blow up at my mother, fight with my father, threatened to move back to the US despite it being a truly shitty idea and a slap in the face to my parents, descend into melodramatic hysteria while talking to my brother (suicide ideation may have been mentioned), touched a knife with thoughts of self-harm, utterly piss off a friend while having the best of intentions (note to self: get better at apologies), and had someone tell me that they were completely in love with me, did unhealthy things in the pursuit of that love, and that I shouldn’t have accepted his tokens of affection, that I was a horrible housemate, that I “nearly blew up” my ex’s relationship with his new girl, and that I “ruined” all of my housemate’s lives.

*breathes out. relaxes shoulders*

Monkey… you’re certainly coming in with a bang. If this is what the upcoming Fire year is going to be like, consider me warned and slightly terrified.

Or can I hope that this is just Monkey’s warning shot over the bow, his reminder to clear out the trash in preparation for next year’s bounty?

After all, he hasn’t quite arrived yet. It’s the eve before the New Year, so perhaps it’s that fiery energy blazing in, sweeping away the green wood of last year?


With hope in mind:

I offer up to Love a pledge to love myself, to hold through each day the idea that the Universe loves me, to remind myself that every moment on this earth is a gift and to forgive others their trespasses so that I may forgive myself.

I vow to Love that I will respect and honor others by first respecting and honoring myself and that I will first look for the story in every tragedy and the smile in every detour.

I invite Love into my life. I invite those who would love me, who would be loved by me, who wishes to be mutually beneficent, who could help me, who I can help, who I can teach and who I can learn from.

I will search for the seeds of selfishness, of self-centered shadows, of fear and doubt, and cast them out as I find them.

Reminder: I must not encroach upon others in a wild flail to regain my balance; do not punish others for what I have done to myself, but also do not soften on boundaries.


My mother, my mirror, the one who blazed the trail that I too often mindlessly follow.

Elle, Kev, my sister-friend, my brother, my mirror, the one who I poke at when the image doesn’t reflect what I think it ought to.

My father, my mirror, the one who gave me most of my irritating logical-pokiness and who turns it on me in balance for my wrongs.

Iddt, my friend, my mirror, the one who hollowed himself out to balance my empty need.

I thank you. I forgive you. I love you. I release you. Forgive me.


Affirmation from mooncircles.com that resonated today:

The beacon of life-destiny beckons me forward.

I step toward new goals despite impediments.

The stones in my path will become future stars.

I continue to create the fullest potential of who I AM.


My birthday is coming up!

I originally planned on publishing Goddess in Waiting as a birthday gift to myself. That does not seem like it’s happening in time, so revisiting and revisions are in order.

*breathes out and lets it go*

Grace, remember? Okay. I can do this.

Realization of today: I have a problem with apologies, especially to my parents, because I’m still struggling with a fear of fundamental rejection. Admitting to doing something wrong is (to my unenlightened mind) akin to inviting censure, attack (abuse?), and abandonment.

Good to know. Let’s do better moving forward. Note to self: get better at apologies.

Lesson: if you love someone and give to someone, then it is up to you to be clear-eyed about what your expectations are and if you are draining of yourself to feed an endless pit.

Another lesson: what works for you will not necessarily work for others – belief in meditation, warm baths, and the healing power of screaming out your rage can be just as much dogma as is found in organized religion. Do not evangelize. Remember, the sick person is not always, if ever, receptive to “did you try x? because it was super helpful for me, etc”.

Monkey be bold. Monkey be wise. Monkey — let’s try not to burn the good away with the bad.

Burning Nights by Julie Wetzel — well, this one certainly might keep me up at night…

…for all the wrong reasons…

I’ve enjoyed most of what I’ve read by Julie Wetzel. A lot.

That said, the latest installment in the Ancient Fire series made me rather sad. Even more sad because she’s one of my auto-buy authors.

For one thing, Burning Nights was a bit of a letdown compared to what I was expecting. Julie says at the end that it was hard for her to write, and I think it does show a bit.

There’s a lot going on with Darien and Victoria and instead of retreating and regrouping, giving the characters a bit of a respite to sort out what’s going on and make some headway with everything that’s piling on them, even more stuff gets heaped on top of Darien. It’s getting to be a bit silly, especially as what happened was almost certainly avoidable if Darien had followed proper protocol. Instead, he didn’t, which seemed rather odd for someone as worldly as he is, and of course everything goes to pieces.

There’s little to no Zak in this book, which was disappointing, because Zak was always good for a smile or chuckle. Without him around to leaven the story, it wasn’t quite the same.

I felt like Julie had fallen into the “how do I top what’s come before” plotting trap, where the writer tries to outdo herself at every turn and ends up with a frenetically paced series where the characters never quite seem to come out ahead no matter what they do, you start questioning if the MCs really get to have any life to their own, and everything starts to feel incredible because seriously, how did they manage to get to their age without all this happening and now it all comes in one big glob?

Also, this entire detour just felt…unnecessary, again. It could have been easily avoided, but no. It also didn’t feel like it did too much for the overall plotline than revealing yet more crazy waiting for them in the wings, which, again, I’m tired of things blowing up at this point.

For another thing, and this was my main sadness — I’ve my first two Asian character sightings of 2016 — and they’re the baddies.


To a certain extent, it really felt like Julie went, what can I possibly come up with that is cooler than what came before?, and then went oh yeah, Japanese youkai stuff is really cool and has shiny things that  I could use, and then of course if you’re using stuff from Japan, then oh yeah, the baddies are Japanese too.

What’s troubling is that in a previous book, there were the ifrit who had been being used by the bad guys. So there was already a “welp, cool, the brown people are the bad guys again” feel, but that was made marginally better because they had been forced to it.

There isn’t that solace in this book.

The main dude is a sociopathic, paranoid (wait, is that redundant?) monster and Japanese. The person helping him is a kitsune (of course, because heavens forbid we use anything else interesting from Japan), who he forced into his service, true, but still.


It’s just frustrating. It’s really hard to see Asian characters anywhere and it just burns when they almost inevitably turn out to be either stereotypes or the baddies or both.

So far, 2016?

Two to zero, with disappointing characterization in the lead.

That aside, I’m seriously uncertain if I want to continue this series at this point. I feel like I signed up for a mostly-sweet, playful, light romance with some paranormal elements, but right now with the new reveal of Darien’s abilities/specialness, it seems like Darien and Victoria are far, far away from just being able to to be two people making a life together. The plotline is turning out to be massively more epic than I anticipated coming in. There’s a lot of stuff going on and it doesn’t seem to show any signs of winding down or getting manageable and even if Darien and Victoria can keep going, I for one feel like I need a bit of a break.


Clarity: a manifesto of sorts

It’s coming on my 30th birthday and I figured I should take some time to step aside from the hurly burly, revisit, revise if necessary, and restock.

The last few weeks or so has been rocky. I’ve felt a bit tapped out, itchy, restless, simultaneously wishing to for a fight to raise sword and shield to and just wanting to be left alone.

It may be that it’s because I’m nearing my period. It may be that I’ve been over-socializing lately. It may be that I’ve felt sick and haven’t given myself enough downtime to recover. It may be that I’ve been pushing myself hard in January and now I’ve discovered too late that I’d burned too many spoons in my enthusiasm. It may be that Dana Gerhardt is right and I’m feeling the effects of the transiting sun being in a balsamic relationship to my natal sun. Or maybe maybe maybe…

Whatever it is, I’ve decided to tell it whateva.

What I love about my birthday is that it falls after Chinese New Year, which falls after the usual New Year. The fact that it falls immediately after Valentine’s day is just extra cherries in my cake.

Not really feeling quite up to speed on the new year yet?

Never fear, there’s another chance to do over with Chinese new year, with new burst of energy from the change in the stars.

Not really settling into the groove of self-love and positive affirmations yet?

No worries, there’s an entire week before I hit my birthday. Enough time to sort of slide into the water instead of being made to jump into the deep end.

With that in mind, maybe it’s time for a manifesto. Because why not? I’ve never done something of the sort before and it seems like fun.

I love… slipping into other realities through the lens of other people, and hatching dreams.

I believe… in grace, in love, in that fanged monster we like to call Hope and I believe that light is brought to the world one lumen at a time.

I am committed to… being that one lumen, to cradling every dream I can find in my hands, and nurturing my light so that it may not only light my world, but hopefully another’s.

Goals (I like lululemon’s idea of setting goals 4 times a year):


This year: fall completely in love with myself

In five years: fall utterly in love with life

In ten years: find someone to share my bliss with


This year:

set my routine in stone. 10k+ steps a day. 3o min of walking after meals. sun salutations in the morning. do the exercises the doctor prescribed nightly. meditate. love my body while still nudging it to be the best it can be.

In five years:

move towards being more vegetarian except possibly for the bleeding times. learn balance and grace so I can travel more.

In ten years:

(this part is hard) be at home within myself, body and mind.


This year: finish Phoenix book 2. publish Goddess. finish and publish Silenced. possibly publish Letters.

In five years: wrap up the Phoenix series, including spin-offs. find my tribe. find writing partners. be making enough money to cover my base expenses.

In ten years: have at least 40 stories published. making goal-money (6k+/month) off my writing.





January 2016: an overview

A life is so-oft composed of numbers. Numbers that circumscribe. Numbers that set you free. Numbers that adulate. Numbers that undulate (mostly those pertaining to weight). Numbers that name and shame and circle like piranhas in the dark.

Don’t bleed. Never bleed. Not in the dark. You don’t know what’s hiding out there.

So, in that vein, that open vein,  let’s see how the numbers fall.

It’s only the 30th, yes, but I’m starting to embrace what it means to live with what I have and what I have access to. Tomorrow is my grandmother’s birthday, and so it will likely be an all-day whirlwind of social social social social interactions nibbles bites interlaced with vague urges to alternately throw myself out the closest window or to shut myself into the bathroom and quietly turn on the steam bath and wash away everything and step out and say fuck you all.

Ah, positivity. I do so well at it.

I slept all day today and it’s hard to breathe but I have enough brain cells to rub together for an overview now at 10:30pm, so let’s do this now rather than hoping I have the energy to do it tomorrow.

Excuses. I need to stop explaining, stop with the reasons, stop with all the little self-nibbles. No is a full sentence. So is a statement of intent.

Assuming no steps taken and no words written tomorrow, I will have an average of 1312 words and 9216 steps per day for January. Highest number of steps was 16000 and most words written in one day was 3287.

There was one day where I took 300 steps all day and three days with zero words written.

A month. In numbers.

The earlier part of this month came easily. Maybe I coasted on the high generated by the multitudes who were excited by the start of a new year. Maybe I glided on my own enthusiasm.

The numbers started tapering off on the 16th, with the first zero coming on the 24th and the other ones following closely.

Back to affirmations. Back to positive dreaming. Back to the drawing board to create a mirage to walk toward.

To be fair, the latter part of this month involved odd nights where insomnia hit hard and days where my brain felt like it was in pea-soup fog and my heart just wanted to rage like a too-tired toddler on crack. Tantrum and tantrum and tantrum until I’d broken everything and then maybe I could find myself in the shattered remnants of the world.

There were moments when I curled up on myself in bed and wondered if this was how 2016 was going to be, just another straggling knock-kneed nag unable to keep up with the herd.

But as Esme said:

But this bout of illness was a reminder, I believe, not of how stupid it is to be hopeful, but how moving through our lives, and through suffering, is a part of our hopefulness, and is a part of the most resilient aspects of ourselves. That I will keep looking forward to my better days and ride out the hard ones is a testament to the stubbornness and tenacity that has kept me going through difficult times so far. I haven’t given up–not yet–because I’m damn stubborn. Chin lifted. I am willing to present as a goddamn mule.

And so: being sick didn’t “ruin” my 2016. My 2016 is still wide open and ahead of me. I’m still going. I’m still doing great, according to my requirements of what it means to live a good life.

Hope. Because even though it is that cruel thing with razored feathers, it is all there is some days.

Jody speaks of when healthy isn’t an option and how to learn to love a chronically ill body:

I also see a body that is still standing. It is a body that is broken on a cellular level, and it struggles to provide for its basic needs, but it keeps on struggling. It hasn’t given up, and so I haven’t given up. I do not fight it anymore — it does its own fighting. Instead, I nurture it. I wrap it in love and compassion, and I recognize that my body is doing the best it can. And, while its best won’t win races or even qualify as “healthy,” it’s good enough for today.

In terms of learning to accept our bodies, there is no such thing as healthy or unhealthy. There is certainly no magical line that constitutes value and worth. Our bodies are our vessels, and loving them and ourselves means treating those vessels with care. I eat well and minimize harm today because I love my body, not because I expect to change it. Through time, I have learned to find beauty in my body’s refusal to give up, but I also recognize that eventually all of our bodies reach their limits. There is beauty and grace in acknowledging and accepting that, too.

Esme’s word for 2016 is alive. Mine might have to be grace.

The inherent grace of my life, where I am fed, clothed, sheltered in all sense of the word, and have access to medical care. Where I am loved and cared for, no matter how that love and care manifests.

The grace to bend, to submit, to acknowledge that which I cannot change, what I can, and what isn’t worth battling over.

The grace of knowing there is always that ultimate no and the grace in being able to say “thank you, not today” and mean it.


Submission and safewording to the universe

I was thinking the other night, about my vague and unrealized interests in BDSM and started wondering, as Thene once asked, how much of that was curiosity and how much of that was genuine interest.

In the end, does it matter? Maybe, maybe not. Because let’s go slightly past the flesh and think about what it means when taken to its logical conclusion.

The thing is, it’s a beautiful thought. Or can be.

The ideal is theoretically someone who both takes control of you and is yet in service to you. Someone who knows your hard limits, cares enough to push you just enough past the point to ecstasy without harming you, someone who has to pay close and careful attention to your every shudder, every whimper, every flinch, so that they may best gauge how to serve your needs and desires. Someone who knows what you like and is committed to giving it to you, perhaps giving just a little too much, to take you beyond the edge into sweet oblivion, but with a net to catch you and bring you safely home again.

And if you move into the other aspects of domination and submission, the idea of someone committed to helping you be a better, purer version of yourself. Discipline when needed, praised when warranted, and of course, above all, someone who is completely all about you and your journey into that sweet place where you can think of nothing at all, close your eyes and simply be.

It’s a beautiful thought.

The reality, of course, is questionable.

Extended to its logical (?) conclusion, I started thinking about the universe as the ultimate Dom.

Saturn, Lord of Time, Master of Karma. Pluto, Lord of Death, the Underworld, intuition itself, king of insight. The Destroyer. These forces in service to the Universe and to us.

Of course, all of this is by nature spoken from a position of privilege. Enough privilege that I’m not sure how far or how deep this analogy can go before I start twitching. Much like my discomfort with the privilege inherent in the notion of laws of attraction and the thought of people choosing every single thing that happens to them. The idea of Earth as a school is all fun and games until you really start taking a good hard look at what is happening in certain places of the globe. Yes, let’s carry everything to its logical extension, but by golly, I don’t need to be comfortable with it.

But let’s talk about the fantasy, shall we? Sometimes the only way to explore a concept is in isolation and in the best possible circumstances. Kind of like trying to pin down a quantum…?

Dare I say yes? (but I already have, because clearly I’m here and not dead)

And what is my safeword? (scene-ending. session-ending.  =Death?)

And what is happening as correction and therefore cannot be safe-worded out of versus something that is meant for the experience and can be? (do we see my intense discomfort with connecting non-safe-wordable-shit as “correction”? here is where the analogy goes to tatters for me.)

…wrenching the mind back to the perfect circumstances analogy schtick…

But, with that thought, there’s something liberating there. (snide voice: yes, there’s usually something liberating about privilege…)

If this entire thing is for my pleasure and my edification (theoretically) and everything goes only so far as I allow it to (still running up against that whole privilege thing…), then there is something supremely liberating about knowing there is a safeword there.

What is it anyway? Pondering.

Safeword out of the dysfunction part of my relationship with my parents.

Safeword out of the relationship that wasn’t working anymore.

The correction bit regarding my health that I haven’t been able to safeword out of yet.


The thing is, it’s a novel thought for the most part – the ability to say no.

Yes, you’re allowed to change. Yes, just because something was this way for a longest time doesn’t mean that it needs to be eternally that way. Yes, you’re allowed to move on. Yes, you’re allowed to tell someone that what they’re doing is hurting you.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

And the flip side of that, of course, is: no.

No to being put on the spot for extra emotional labor.

No to saying yes to authority just because.

No to staying in relationships where I’m not a priority.

No to people who just aren’t that into me.

No. No. No.

If I believe. If I allow myself to believe. (hard, really, again with the tattered analogy)

Then I can believe that most things happen for a reason. I can believe that I allowed most of the things in my life to happen to me. I can believe that these experiences were perhaps necessary, that perhaps I needed them to grow into myself.

Perhaps I could have learned an easier way. A better way.

Perhaps I can console myself that it would have been a slower way.

Perhaps I can console myself that I might not have learned anyway because I’m terribly stubborn.

But if I allow myself to believe.

Then I can believe in safewords, in the ultimate grace of a Universe that is watching and won’t give me more than I can stand, in my ability to take and stretch and bend and submit and finally break out of myself into something purer.


Maybe I believe in fairy tales.




So much easier this way. Almost like cheating, except…I deserve it

I was just thinking tonight, how much easier it is to love myself single.

One entire wall of my room is window and at night it turns into a massive mirror.

I see myself. Endless glimpses of myself. I can’t get away from me, in fact.

Getting ready for bed. Sitting at my tiny desk. Looking up while blow-drying my hair. A side-ways glance when thinking while reading.

And I don’t mind it.

I’ve always had an odd relationship with mirrors.

For the longest time, I startled when I looked into a mirror because I wasn’t expecting what I saw.


I don’t know what I expected.

It wasn’t as simple, as …dirty-clean as thinner, paler, differently colored hair or eyes or more delicate features or shit like that. It was this visceral jerking back of “wait, what’s that?”, this sense of seeing something that wasn’t expected, that the me in the mirror wasn’t truly myself at all.

Now, though, I’m settling into myself. I look up and the face looking back at me is expected, is pretty to me, the smile intimate and familiar.

It’s easier, now.

I like my body more now that I don’t have to worry about someone else liking it or wanting to sex it. I like it more now that it serves only me, that the only person who gets affected by my cycles of mood and menstruation and energy is me.  I like it more now that it doesn’t feel like a traitor to the cause of being a better example of femininity.  My body serves me and only me and that’s fine. I’m a kinder mistress than anyone else has ever been to me and it’s wonderful.

And no, it’s probably not fair to anyone, much less myself,  that I feel this way.

But I do. And I’m single. So I suppose I should revel in it while I do.

Or maybe it is fair.

Dante whispered in my ear today, “Test me, baby. Test me all you like. I won’t back down and I won’t flinch because it’s my privilege and my duty as yours to make you certain of me.”

And Thryn said softly, “It wouldn’t really be love if I could tell you why, would it? If I could parse it, if I could lay out exactly why you’re home to me and why I dream softer with you and why the only shelter I’ll ever need lies in your eyes and your arms… then it wouldn’t be love. It would be a transaction, a business merger.”

I’m falling in love with myself. With this body that tries so hard. With this heart that will not quit. With this mind that amuses and dazzles. With these senses that open up entire universes to me.

I’m falling in love with Love.

It feels almost like cheating. This effortless joy, untainted by sly glances hinting at inadequacy, unmarked by insidious “buts”, just mine.

Aedrian takes my hand in the dark and shushes my worries. He knows what it’s like to feel like your love isn’t enough, that you could love enough to shatter yourself and shred your heart and it wouldn’t take up even a dust mote’s space in the universe, but he’s willing to try.

Could I do any less?

Let’s play on easy mode for now. Hard mode will come along sooner rather than later.


Treading softly upon the self

I tweeted yesterday (with more txt speak, of course, since, Twitter):

That moment, twelve days into 2016, when you realize you’re beating yourself up for breaking your New Year’s Resolution… to stop beating yourself up for stressing out.


Oh my goodness. It really was funny when I realized what I was doing. Funny and sad, yes, but funny just the same.

I was going to do a “first week of 2016″ overview, but it was only day five when I thought of it and then I blinked and it was the ninth. So when I re-thought it and decided the first half-month of 2016 would do, except today is the 13th… I decided to just go ahead and write it anyway.

Thirteen is a nice, solid, much maligned number anyway.

So how’s 2016 treating you thus far, babe?

So far, the numbers are pretty positive. I’ve made my 10k steps on almost every day, except for one. I’ve written more than a thousand words every day, not including journaling. And I’ve been mostly getting to sleep and waking up at very reasonable hours.

There were a couple of nights of weird insomnia around the solar term Little Cold, but that’s hopefully behind me now.

If 2016 were a guy, I’d say that the first date was very promising and he seems like a gentleman, albeit one that keeps me up nights thinking about him. Definitely second date material, though I’m still observing.


To continue the dating analogy, I have also realized that in the end it really does circle around to myself. Something I was thinking about yesterday, at the tail end of my period, when I realized that I was being immensely grumpy for really no good reason at all…

Was it because the period was a physical symbol of yet another month without conventionally approved growth, because it was a sign of missed opportunities, because I was secretly hankering after baby-making?

Or was it because I was upset that I’ve only been doing a thousand or so words a day when I really wanted to be doing something spectacular like 3 or 5k?

Or was it because I was feeling sick again and it’s been seven freaking months and for fuck’s sake?

Or was it because mom and I had another reprise of the relationship talk and I was feeling uncertain and sore?

Or was it just the hormones balancing out and the slight fever getting me down?

I have no idea, but really, the why doesn’t actually matter, because none of those things were worth being grumpy over. I was comparing myself to others and that shit needed to stop. Stat. I was fretting over what would happen when/if my parents cut off the gravy train before I was ready. That shit needed to stop too. I’ve survived. I will survive. No sense in borrowing trouble.

I made word count. I made step count. My cycles are getting more regular. Anyone who’s complaining just needs to shut the fuck up.

I realized, too, that part of me was uncertain and wiffly-waffly because of the way things ended between me and some of the people in my past.

I realized that I thought that I, in a way, didn’t deserve love, or wouldn’t receive the love that I wanted, because I can be a judgmental, high maintenance bitch I have high standards. Standards that so many people have looked at and told me that I was delusional for holding to. Standards that people have told me will lead to me crying alone into my porridge when I’m shriveled and cold.

And then I realized that I was wrong. And everyone who told me that it’s better to settle than to be alone was wrong. And everyone who looks at me with pity because I’m alone is wrong. And every person who tells me that one of these days I’m going to regret everything is dead wrong.

Because I won’t let it happen. I won’t, because if I die trying, I’m going to have the most wonderful love affair with myself for the rest of my life.

Something I reminded myself of yesterday:

Life isn’t about the end. Not truly. It’s not about who you leave behind, what your legacy is, or what people whisper about you after you’re rotting/burning.

Because you won’t care when you’re dead.

Today exists. Am I happy today? Will I regret spending this day this way if I were to die tomorrow?

Today is a journey, a potentially amazing one from the moment I step out of bed to the moment I fall into dream, back in bed.

If Today were a journey, would you regret what you’ve seen and done or no? If no regrets, then why worry about what the sum of days will be at the end of your life?

I didn’t do all that much in Barcelona, even though I knew it was possibly a once in a lifetime trip. We visited the cathedral that looked like (from the outside) some kid had gone nutso with popsicle sticks and papier mache. We walked around some. We visited another cathedral. And we went to the beach.

That’s it. More than a week, and that’s all I remember.

Mostly, the beach. Lying on the sand. Swimming nude in the ocean. (oh god, tits are fucking buoyant in sea water) Learning to accept my body and not take shame in it. The deliciousness of Iberico ham on croissants with a fresh fried egg on top. Having mangos that actually tasted like mangos for the first time in years outside of Taiwan — in Europe. *big eyes*

I don’t regret any of it. Maybe I could have seen more. Maybe I could have tried out the nightlife in Barcelona. Maybe I could have pushed myself past my comfort zone.

But in the end, I would probably go back and just do the same thing because I’m me and my health was that way and the beach was amazing.

So it’s all good. All that money spent. That once in a lifetime chance.

No regrets.

I told my mother I wasn’t ready a couple of days ago. She was worried because I’m 29 and the clock is ticking, the fuse is burning, and soon I’ll be considered an old maid rather than an eligible maiden.

I told her that I was still in a tentative position. I still have to work on my boundaries, my ability to say no, my incessant need to please and soothe. I still have yet to recover fully from all the emotional labor I did for the past eleven years and the bitterness of how very futile it all turned out to be. I still don’t trust, not really.

This particular crab has withdrawn into the sea, into the deep, and is working on building that shell. Maybe that’s going to be a problem because crabs can only mate when they molt and this might be the wrong time to be growing a hard shell, but if it’s so then it’s so.

As I said to myself:

It’s all right if I’m single for the rest of my life, because it might take me a lifetime to fully understand myself and to court myself the way I deserve to be courted. Might as well get on it, stay on it, and perfect it. And I can’t do that as easily if I’m distracted by a guy.

Better to figure things out this lifetime, work on polishing that self-esteem, build and maintain proper curtain walls, and fully realize and implement the art of loving the self first. Because I don’t want to do this again.

If being single this lifetime is the price to pay, then so be it.

Maybe I can let my next lifetime off the hook.

Song for this moment: Galileo from Indigo Girls

The affirmations continue.

I am worthy of love.

I am worthy of being loved the way I need to be loved.

I am worthy of being loved the way I want to be loved.

I can do this.

I can realize my dreams.

I can heal.

I can move on from the past.

I can forgive. I can even, gasp, forgive myself.

I will not say no to love. I will not say no to bounty. I will not say no to joy. I will not say no to all the good things in life that the Universe grants me. I will not close my eyes to Love.

I will say yes to hope. Yes to Love. Yes to forgiveness. Yes to myself. Yes to sleeping in when I need it. Yes to that extra snack. Yes to the nap in the middle of the day. Yes to being a cat in human skin if that’s what it takes.

Yes? Yes. Yes!

It’s day 13 of 2016 and I’m just fine.

Touch yourself with gentle joy. Speak to yourself with tender love. Step softly upon the self that carries you. Listen to the small voice within you. See yourself with sweet clarity. Hear the comfort that comes from deep within, the voice that says just one more step, one more, to the light.




Navigating the shoals of productivity

Or. How to benefit from a farm share without going mad whilst coping with low energy/appetite.
Or. Redefinition of a “normal” life when circumscribed by suboptimal health.

There were many things I released in 2015, and one of the biggest ones was the drama of food and what constituted a meal.

This one was huge because of the intersection of nutrition, finances, time constraints, energy, appetite, and cravings.

I realized that I spent a lot of time circling around meals. Either I was thinking about food, making food, cleaning up after making food, shopping for food, prepping food to be cooked, or staring into the refrigerator in dismay at things I’d bought that were going off.

Some days I’d fall into bed and think, welp, I didn’t do anything else, but I ate today.

The first thing I let go of was the notion of meal creation as women’s work. Of course, the logical brain had long ago tossed aside the notion that it was the female half’s job to make sure meals got onto the table, people got well fed, and the kitchen cleaned up after. Unfortunately, the feels didn’t quite catch up until fairly recently, and only then because there genuinely weren’t enough spoons to go around.

I had to release the idea that “love means you feed the ones you love and if you don’t make sure the ones you love are well-fed, then you’re doing it wrong“. That one was all intertwined with “but I need to eat anyway…soo…”.

Which leads me to the release of what constituted a meal.

Growing up, meals always involved at least one platter of stir-fried veg, one meat dish, a soup of some sort, and probably an egg dish or another meat dish to round things out. So the idea of what a “proper” meal consisted of was very much ingrained in me. Not just in terms of propriety, it was also how I’d gotten used to eating. I didn’t like meals that were nothing but rice and meat and I didn’t feel fully satiated if it was just rice and veg. (the year of vegetarianism was a fun trip…)

When spoons really came at a premium, I discovered the lifesaver that is the Vitamix. It was mostly by accident, actually. I had a chicken pot pie that really wasn’t doing it for me, and chewing was such a chore, so I ended up tossing it into the blender with some stock and just chugged the result. Cue the eureka moment of — wait, what can’t I blend?

Now, I blend everything. I’ll toss all sorts of veg, meat, oatmeal, rice, and sometimes nuts into the blender, smoothify it to the consistency of a thick soup, and just drink that for as many meals as I need to.

This is why the Vitamix instead of my stick blender or a normal blender, by the way. The end result from the Vitamix is smooth and creamy, even if you dilute it. Sometimes a thick soup that looks okay when blended with a normal blender ends up …snaggly when you add water to thin it out to drinkable consistency. As in no-chewing whatsoever, just drink it like juice dilution.

Note: I wish I knew this back when I was drowning in vegetable matter from my farm share.

I blanch all the veg, which means I can fit an entire head of cabbage into the container if I want to, go to town in terms of additions, and hit the magic button. I’ve tossed remainders of beef stir-fry in with cups of spinach before – the bits of ginger and garlic and soy sauce was a nice touch. I’ve also made chicken stock with an entire chicken, shredded off all the chicken, and liquefied all the stock veg and the chicken into a thick soup.

If I could only own three electric things ever, it’d be my laptop, my Vitamix, and my cellphone. Best money I ever spent. Ever.

It’s completely possible to make three pots of soup at the start of the week, puree everything, and just alternate all week. Very little mess, no waste,  little clean up on a day to day level, and best of all – no thought required.

Poor appetite? Doesn’t matter since there’s no chewing and therefore little effort. Just chug it.

My mom’s gotten fairly on board with this notion and it’s great. Dad’s not a fan, but in which case, we just direct back to release #1: care and feeding of other humans isn’t my god-given responsibility. (babies are different, okay?)

And the last thing that I learned to release was the idea of “normal” productivity.

It’s inevitable. You see what other people do, what they get done, and how they seemingly juggle work, family, social activities, fun, and themselves effortlessly and it’s hard not to go pea-green with envy.

Something else that I learned to do is to pay attention.

Most things hinge on whether or not I sleep well the night before.

If not, well, then it might have to be a low-load day. I aim for 6k steps on the fitbit, try for 250 words, and let the rest of the chips fall where they may. Sometimes it’s a no-load day and …well, I’ve since learned that there’s no forcing it. Some things you can push through. Chronic illness, depending on what’s going on, not so much.

If I do sleep okay, then I have a short window (2 hrs?) in the morning where I can brain. So this is when I try to write.

Around 10:30am my focus often gets drifty, again completely dependent on the sleep quality the night before. At this point I either move onto reading articles and blogging, or it’s time to eat.

Around 2pm, I start to get sleepy again and at this point about all my brain wants to do is read. This is a good time to do social-y things where being completely online isn’t necessary.

And then it’s all downhill from there.

I do sometimes get a second wind sometime in the evening, but it’s erratic and I haven’t really pinpointed what causes it yet. It’s entirely possible that it’s due to dinner often being the biggest meal of the day in our family, but big meals are just as likely to make me groggy as not…

For 2016, I’m aiming to turn the lights off at 9pm, maybe read a bit, do my positive projections, and then hopefully sleep before 10pm.

And I know myself, which means no excitement  whatsoever starting at about 8pm.

We eat around 6pm, which means cleanup will end around 7:30 or so and then it’s showertime and then wind down time.

I used to hate the idea of non-spontaneity and regulating my schedule like this, but it doesn’t bother me now. In fact, there might be benefits to having a severely curtailed night life. We’ll see if it’s true that nothing amazing happens after 9pm anyway.


New Year’s Eve of 2015 – saying yes to hope

Beautiful post on Saturn moving into Sagittarius. I wanted to quote, but I ended up wanting to clip the entire thing, so  I suppose y’all will just have to head over and read it.

And yes, it’s for everyone, even if you don’t believe in the quackery:

Fortunately, miracles aren’t granted only to the holy, the pious or the righteous. Miracles aren’t saved for the popular kids that are so #blessed. That’s privilege and it’s a human construct that has nothing to do with actual blessings. Miracles are something much more interesting. Miracles are taking place all the time. In big ways. In teeny-tiny ways. Inside every life. Miracles simply exist. Without our force. Without our coercion. Without our manipulation.

Every time you love out loud you are opening a space for a miracle to enter. Every time you seek to create a safe and just world for all you are helping miracles to occur. Every time you remember that your liberation is bound up in the liberation of every other being on the planet, you have been granted a miracle. Every time we remember and act on the fact that we are all here to serve one another, we have been part of a miracle.

Say yes to the miracle. Say yes to hope.

Even though we may carry past traumas and abuse. Even so.

And on this New Year’s Eve, I’d like to take a step towards not carrying all that anymore. It happened. It sucked. Let’s talk it to death and figure out what lessons were to be learned from all that tragedy, and for fuck’s sake – let’s move on.


Saturn in Sagittarius might also be asking us to harness our faith, show up for what we believe in and offer our lives as sites for the miraculous to occur.

Then, yes.

2015 has been difficult and illuminating.

As I said to Thene, purity can indeed only be found in torture, re: Katherine as a name. In order to refine or distill anything, one pulverizes, shreds, steams, boils down, all to break something down into small enough pieces so the essence may be captured.

And perhaps I should not forget that in order for any light to be created, there must be a death of some sort.

Even so, I have much to be grateful for. There have been beautiful moments, all the more so because of the contrast of loss and anger.

What I want from 2016: Health. Love. Story. Joy.

Thus my goals:

I’m committing to showing up. Every day. No excuses. No whining. No nothing. I get the day off if I would have called in sick to work, but otherwise, no. But if it is one of those days, leading into #2….

I’m committing to self-forgiveness. It’s okay to fuck up. It’s okay if I tried my best and it didn’t net me what I was looking for. If it’s a bedridden day, it’s a bedridden day. Suck it up buttercup, snag another book off the TBR pile, and just settle into your blankets.

I’m committing to loving myself first. Put on your oxygen mask before you worry about others and all that jazz. Questions: Are you fed? Are you watered? Have you had enough sleep? Are you warm? Are you calm and centered? If not, drop everything and fix it. The car ain’t gonna go nowhere if the engine’s shot. I am the thrust behind my life’s trajectory; it is only sensible to make sure the rockets are functioning at all times.

I’m committing to boundaries. Say no to users and abusers. Say no to other people’s emotional labor. Say no to non-reciprocity. Say no to everything that drags you down. Say no to stupid fights that won’t get anywhere. Just. Say. No.

It’s New Year’s Eve. I have a map, a full belly, a comfortable ship, and the horizon extends beyond infinity. Let’s go, shall we?

On babying. Or not. The cruel illogic of the biological clock.

Eight of Swords

I mentioned that I’d drawn this card today in chat and someone mentioned that the keywords sounded a lot like motherhood. So we started talking about mothering and the choices there.

Motherhood is a choice like so many others, but for some reason, I cannot be logical about this one. It doesn’t feel like a choice. Or if it does, it feels like one of those stupid “if your mother and your wife both fell into the sea and were drowning, which one would you save” decisions.

Tangent: choice, to me is like picking a dessert. Hard, but doable. Decision, for me, is more like “okay, this is the piece of soul I will sacrifice”. More weight. More oomph. More spirit-killing.

I was devastated when my boyfriend of ten years told me that he thought having a baby would ruin our lives.

There were numerous reasons to believe this to be the case:

We had a nice living situation with two other friends in a pretty nice place in a pretty nice location. Having a baby would nix that right quick.

My health situation wasn’t too shiny at that point, even thought it had yet to get really bad.

Boyfriend was still juggling the attempt to get a college degree along with his 50+hr/week job.

My job situation was strange and fucked up and we weren’t really making a ton of money between the two of us.

So yes, it was logical, it was practical, it was sensible — and it hurt like a motherfucker. (tangent: why exactly does a motherfucker hurt?)

All the illogical feels came out. All of them. (probably not helped by the fact that boyfriend kept saying he wanted to marry me and then throwing fits about actually doing it)

Logical brain goes:

It’s a baby. You can get babies other ways. Like adoption (hella hard though, nowadays from what I hear). Or fostering.

It’s not a special bundle of special symbolism of your love or your significant’s love for you.

Him not wanting a baby with you has absolutely no bearing on you as a person or your relationship or anything except he doesn’t want a baby. With you.

You don’t really want a baby right now either. You’re not the healthiest person on the planet and there’s a lot of health risks associated with pregnancy and you want to write and that’s hella hard with a baby in the house as you can tell from your enbabied writer friends.

Illogical feels scream:

Him not wanting a baby with you is absolutely a judgment on you as a person, as a girlfriend, as a housemate.

I want my baby, my child where I can map their features and wonder over how much of me and my beloved is there and how much is just their own special amazingness.

A baby absolutely is a special bundle of special snowflake symbolism of our love and my beloved’s love for me.

But if I don’t get in the baby-making line now, it will never happen and that would kill me. Kill me. Kill me dead.

I had a dream the other day where I dreamt that I missed the boat. That I was past the age where I could bear children and I was surrounded by my ex-friend R and her children and her friends with their children. I remember standing there, with this terrible ache, the gut-deep certainty that I’d fucked up somehow and I was paying for it.

I woke up, terrified, shocked down to my toes at the visceral grief coiling in my stomach.

Because it’s true. The idea of motherhood scares the shit out of me and yet.

I’m afraid I’ll do it wrong. I’m not known for having the most patience and I don’t suffer fools. I’m afraid that I’ll snap at the wrong time, do the wrong thing, and the next thing I know I’m paying $500/hr for therapy for my kids.

I’m afraid that will mean the end of my attempt at building a writer career for the next ten or so years. At least. I want to write. I want to take a stab at actually making this work. I find it hard to work with distractions at the best of times. Having a baby… oh man.

I don’t have a huge amount of energy, (yes, logical reason #100000 why babies now is a terrible idea, thanks), and I can’t imagine being a newborn’s caretaker without also imagining the absolute hell it must be.

Boundaries. I am shit at boundaries. I soak up other people’s emotions like a sponge. I try to anticipate needs. I’m the hostess who is always refilling glasses, popping up to throw just one more thing into the oven, making sure everyone’s full and are they sure they don’t want more dessert. I’m supposed to be building boundaries and walls and stuff to keep myself sane and safe and having a baby is by definition tearing all of that down.

I’m a shut-in introvert. I am all too happy to hang out with people online and just do my own thing. I cannot begin to anticipate what it would be like to be on-call 24/7 to someone who you can’t even really logic with for the first four years. …oh yeah, wait, I kinda did that at my old job and it sucked balls and even then I had some buffer space.

But oh god I want the option.

Disturbing trend lately: I’ve been reading a hell of a lot of breeding romantica and I’ve been disgruntled when heroes and heroines in a romance aren’t down to have babies.


Everything is complicated by the writing and wanting to write.

I need quiet and I need space and I need to be able to think within myself.

If I don’t choose writing, I cannot know right now if I would regret the lack of a child more at the end of my life or the lack of my stories and that’s where the real struggle is.

There was the thought of waiting for the children to be grown up enough. Just maybe eight years. But I know a lot can happen in eight or ten years. There might not be that expanse of time I’m expecting. And if there isn’t. If there is only today and maybe tomorrow, then what do I want?

For now, I want the writing.

The clock is ticking, ever louder, ever closer, and it’s driving me slightly mad.

In the end, I’ve made the decision not to make the choice.

I don’t even have a boyfriend right now.

If I do find someone, who knows if it will work out?

If it does work out, who knows if they’ll want children?

If they do, with PCOS and assorted issues, who knows if I’ll even be able to to have children?


I need to work on my health first.

Then my boundaries and my self.

Then my work.

And if I meet someone, I do. If it works out, I do. If he’s down to fuck for babies, I do. If I manage to get pregnant, I do.

Otherwise, I suppose I don’t.

I say that, but it’s still so nebulous as a decision that it might as well not be one. Iddt said once that it seemed ridiculously fatalistic over something so big.

But it’s the best I can do and the best I can offer myself, such as it is. I can’t live life ever hoping that all the stars will align and a chimera will bound out of the forest and all will be well. I’d rather save myself. Or as much of myself as I can with what tools I have. And right now the writing is more important than babying.

And in the end, I suppose that’s all I can really ask of myself.