Posts Tagged ‘wearing my heart on my sleeve’

Don’t Stop Writing

June 4, 2017

I was told recently.

“I like reading what you write.”


I love that.


Although it’s not why I write and I am struggling with that.

Let go, I whisper to myself.


It’s hard to let go of something that I have been in relationship with for seven years.

I have to shut down my blog.

I haven’t written the last few days and I can feel it in my bones.

Actually, that’s not true.

I have been writing, a lot.

Just not my blog.

I have been busy.

And the not writing I can take with a great big grain of salt because I was busy doing wonderful things and having life altering experiences.

Life is happening.

My God, is it ever.

I started my internship.

I take my first client next week.

I have read my client file, contacted said client and set up our first session.

I am navigating all the paper work and all the insurance stuff, more stuff, all the stuff, the policy papers and the keys, oh my God, the keys, I have a lot of keys right now.

Which is fine.

I jangle when I walk, but whatever.

Today I had my first group supervision training.

It was great, I learned a lot, it’s rather like being in a small classroom and getting to ask the teacher all the things, and I took some notes and got the questions I needed answered.

Most of my questions had to do with administrative stuff as I haven’t met with a client yet.

All the others in the group have been seeing clients and thus they brought up what they needed to have addressed.

It was great learning for me to just sit and listen and I did have some input and that was nice, I was able to see a few things and offer some different perspective and I was thanked for my experience and my insight.

Which I appreciated as well.

I also asked about my blog.

This blog.

My baby.

My love child.

My little place in the universe to pour out my heart and talk about all the stuff on my heart and in my mind, or to get out all the stuff in my mind so that I can listen to my heart better.

I have known, probably since I started school, that one day the blog was going to end.


The writing doesn’t have to end.

And that was what my supervision group gave me today.

I got very affirmative feedback from everyone to take down the blog off social media and make it completely anonymous.

I have already pulled it from my Instagram account and I privatized that account so random folks can’t join it, I have to approve the follow request.

I have also dropped a few folks off the friends list on Facecrack.

I could probably winnow that out a little more as well.

It was recommended that I change my name on Facecrack.

I’m not sure to what, but I know a few people in my cohort have already started doing that.

It’s a damn good idea.

The next suggestion was to not link my blog to Facecrack.

It would eliminate a lot of my readers.

I mean.

A lot.


It would provide me with more anonymity and it would also give my client room to see me as a therapist, not as some poet girl, Burning Man aficionado, single lady in the Outer Sunset riding around the city on a scooter.




It was suggested and I knew the moment I heard it that it was the next action to take.

That I stop writing this blog.

Double ugh.

I knew it in my gut, but I teared up.

I am tearing up now.


I know that because I have such big feelings that I am going to be a great therapist because I can empathize, but shit, sometimes it’s just a bitch being sensitive.

Granted, I wouldn’t wear it any other way, that is, my heart on my sleeve.


Gerber daisies in a Mason jar.

Dark pink stars on slippery green stalks opening toward the light.

Petals kissing.

And blushing soft.

Mouths like hungry little beasts blossoming into the warm air.

My heart.

Threaded with light.

Opening and beating against the back of my ribcage.

Tender under the bruised spaces on my breastplate.

This then.

Each moment timeless and gone only to be longed for again.

And again.

And again.


I digress.

But you get the point?

I like to express.

I like poetry.

I lie.

I love poetry.

I am a whore for it, like cello music and Clair de Lune and Brahms and Mozart and Chopin, I prostrate myself to it and hope, really I do hope, to gracefully surrender to whatever beauty is taking me at that moment with a kind of asunder that only perhaps is heard inside my soul.

But hear it I do.

And to renounce this forum feels terrifying and sad.

So sad, the richness of sweet lipped tears on the tops of my cheeks and the sudden catch of my breath in my throat.


All the feelings I don’t want to feel.



All the feelings I get to feel, I am so grateful and graced and loved.


I am.

And I am aware of my great fortune.


This then, begins the end of my blog.

I have to let you know I won’t stop writing.


I just won’t be writing here any longer.

I will have an end date on Auntie Bubba.

She has been such a good girl to me and shown me my strengths, and oh yes, my defects, those in spades, all things intimate and good and intense and wounded and sad and well, just all the things.


All the lovely things.

This bearing witness to my own journey.

I am forever grateful for it.


As this chapter closes.

As the Book of Bubba comes to an end.

I will admit.

That I am not finished.

That I am not written out.

That there are more words and worlds of words and galaxies and yes, a universe to still discover and write about.

There is a theory about the Big Bang and how the universe was created and when the universe will end and that it all came from one spot and explodes out and then shrinks back in on itself.

This is called the Big Bounce.

This is all very general and not very theoretically informed, mind you.


It speaks to me and what I endeavor now to share with you.

I will be starting a new blog.

I am not done.

This blog is, however, just about done.

I will only publish a few more blogs here.

I am not quite ready to say good-bye yet.

But it is only days away.

I will start a new blog and I will continue my writing, my growth, my learning, my pushing my edges and finding out more and more who I am through this medium that speaks so much to me.


I will not be connecting it to my Twitter account, in fact I am damn close to doing a deactivation on my Twitter account, I don’t feel like I use it all the often any way.

I will not be posting my blog on Facecrack.

I will not be making it known who I am.

I will be writing anonymously.

I haven’t a name yet.

Just a taste on my lips, like the last kiss at the end of the night, the push of tongue into my mouth and the startled stillness in my heart that precursor to the shaking tremble that befalls me and  tells me, yes, here, go here.

I will consider sharing with some of my readers my new blog.

But you will have to message me privately.

Which you may do by posting a comment.

I approve all comments before they are linked to my blog.

I will message you my new blog when it goes live.

Otherwise, seven years later, I will bid this space adieu.

They say that after seven years all the cells in your body turn over.

I know not what will be next.

I just know that there is a next.

And I thank you.

My readers.

Who ever you are, where ever you are, for humoring me and my poetry and my words and my tears and my heart ever beating upon my bloody damn sleeve.

With so much gratitude.

I thank you.


Always Stop For Love

May 20, 2015

I had to.

I saw it there.

On the side of the road, up in the gloaming of the meadow, flowers blooming in the trees, small candles lit and spread across the ground, a string of white circus lights strung in the tree, and LOVE glowing in the back ground.

I mean.

I had to stop.

It was a tiny wedding happening underneath a flowering dogwood tree in Golden Gate Park in a little meadow just across the way from the Stow Lake parking entrance.

I was riding my bicycle and coming up the only hill on my ride through the park, thus a place I would not be inclined to stop, not up hill, not on my stride.



Glowing in the trees.



You can stop.

You have to stop.

You are stopping.

I mean, sometimes I just gotta stop, hop off the bike, let in the love, bask in the reflection of warm lights and blossoming trees, of love so soft and pretty and pressing, there, just there, against my heart.

Don’t roll along so fast, it says, slow down, lovely girl, wake up, look around, there it is, all around you, just waiting for you to let it in, see it there, just in the trees, glowing warm and cozy, entrancing you to stop and look around.

My heart just opened and I took a very discreet photograph and left the couple to their vows and their own private love and looked up at the sky, the stars hanging low on the horizon, the last of the light from the sunset lingering in the tree tops and I thanked God for letting me stop, see, and open my heart just a tiny bit more.

It always hurts, that opening up for love.

Being vulnerable.

“Where’s your heart, Carmen?”  My littlest charge asked me.

“On my sleeve,” I replied.

Literally and figuratively.

I am wearing a cardigan with hearts all over it.

And well, I always break my own heart, again, and again, and then again some more.

“I love when you are here, when I wake up, I love you, I love you, I love you, Carmen Cat,” he said to me today when he woke up from his nap.

He rolled over and snuggled into my side and I stroked his small warm back.


I smiled.

My heart squeezed open some more.

I shared with the mom today that my mind was a little pre-occupied with the task at hand for later tonight–not this blog, but writing in general–getting out the addendum essay to my application to the graduate program at CIIS for the Diversity in Leadership Scholarship.

I had made some phone calls during a small break at work when all the planets aligned and there was a nap happening and both mom and dad were out of the house and I was caught up on the cooking (cheese tortellini with pesto sauce) and cleaning and was about to go on my own lunch break, and I could reach out.

Talk out my crazy.

Talk about how I am not paid for 12th step work and how I was afraid that discussing myself as a sober, clean, recovered woman in my community and what that looked like and how in its own quiet way is a way of being a leader.

What does that look like and what do I mean and how can I be certain that I am not manipulating what I do for my own personal ends?

One of my people chuckled at me, “Carmen, it sounds like this is a gift and you’re afraid to accept it.”




And I want to self-sabotage by not writing the essay on some grounds that I don’t have what it takes, when in fact I do and in fact I know that by my own example I lead.

That doesn’t mean I’m a leader, I am but another trusted servant, a worker amongst workers, a fellow amongst fellows, there is nothing unique or special in me that qualifies me to be anything other than that.

But to disclaim the work I do, the way I take my recovery seriously, the things I do, the amount of time and work I put into it, it would be false humility to not recognize those assets.


What I have been given is a gift and should I try with all my hardest I won’t ever really be able to repay it.

However, I acknowledged that what I do is important and that I walk the walk, that I don’t just talk the talk.

I am my actions.

Not my thoughts.

So I accept the wisdom and guidance of those with much more time than I living this way of life and wrote the essay.

I wrote it immediately upon coming home.

I asked to carry the message and not the mess and let God speak through me and for me, or write though me, if you will.

Which is what always happens when I let God in.

When I let love in.

The words come.

Some artists call that a muse, I call it love, I call it being a conduit for spirit and I let in that love, those words, and the things that come out often astound me.

Where did that come from?

I stopped asking that a long time ago.

Most of the time I say my prayer and just let it go.

“Thank you for what you said, I can so relate, I really needed to hear that,” she said.

“I have no idea what I said, but you’re welcome,” I said in response and hugged her.

Hugging strangers.

Stopping for love.

Accepting that I am worthy of love and lovable.

Showing up day after day to the feelings.

Potentially lonely/perpetually human/suspended and open



Open your eyes and then.

And then.

The love will shine in.

I promise.

Caught In A Down Pour

October 26, 2014

I was suddenly in Paris.

I was really in Noe Valley.

The rain was that sudden, heavy, sharp, the color of the sky, light soft pink around the dark grey edges, the mottled heavy clouds shifting and massing and splitting apart as the wind scuttled them through the valley, it could have been Paris.

I almost ducked into a doorway to wait it out.

It was certainly passing through fast and I knew there was nothing behind it, clear skies, sharp air, the whisper of smoke from a chimney up the hill, I ran for it.

I was wet.

But happy for the rain.

As is anyone who is aware of the drought situation here.

I wasn’t thinking about that, however, I was thinking about the rain coat I had pulled out of my closet and then put back in.

Of course I had.

It wasn’t going to rain, didn’t the universe know I was on my scooter and the last thing I wanted was a wet, dark, rainy ride home up and down the hills of San Francisco.

I mean, hello.

But there it was the rain, and I was glad for it, glad for the sudden deluge and the popping up the hood on my sweatshirt and the fact was I would be dry and warm soon with hot tea and grand company.

We sat for an hour and read and got right with the world and had some laughs and did some work and it was exactly what I needed.

I always get what I need when I get out-of-the-way, but I have a habit of stepping on my own toes.

So I was happy, am happy, to report, that I did not step on my toes tonight and I have a date for tomorrow.


Like that.

“Now that you’ve started doing the work, the date last night, well, you’re going to find that the universe is going to open up the door.”

I smiled.

I actually believed.

And I acted.

I’m not going to say a whole lot more about that, I have a hard time writing about certain things at times, this is one of those times.

Suffice to say I rode my little Vespa home, up and over the hills and through the woods, well, alongside them as the case may be (I ride home along the park and it does feel like the wilds sometime, I can sense all things verdant that used to be the edge of the world–the old growth trees in the park often humble me with their strength, silence, longevity) with a smile, nay a grin on my face.

Let me say when there’s no chemistry it’s apparent, even when I wouldn’t mind if there were, even if he’s a nice guy, even if.

But when there’s chemistry.


Then, why, I grin.

And I am grinning now.

It’s sort of hard to write this and keep things close to my chest, I like being transparent, but I also don’t want everything in my life on this blog, somethings, my dears, are just for me.

And onwards.


Next weekend.

I’m doing something.

I am going to get my Halloween on.

I am really quite surprisingly pleased that a number of my friends are going to be doing something for the holiday.

I had a friend ask me last week if I would go with her, if we could find a ride, over to a big party in San Rafael; only to find today that another darling friend who I have not seen since I got back from Burning Man, is going.

Then another friend tonight mentioned that he’s got a friend from camp at Burning Man staying with him next weekend and they too were contemplating heading over to San Rafael.

I guess I need to get myself a costume.

My first instinct is to go as  bunny rabbit.

Yeah, yeah, I know, I have something for bunnies, I don’t need to get all psychological about it, I just like the little critters, and yes, I did consider going as a jackalope, I mean, come on, how fabulous would that be?

It’s the horns that are tricky.

I did find a super cute head band with horns and moss and flowers on Etsy.

But, uh, for $130 I don’t think so.

I could afford it, I paid rent early today and took care of my student loans and put money in my savings account, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to drop that kind of cash on a set of horns.

I can, however, probably pick up a set of bunny ears and draw some whiskers on my cheeks and a little nose, and wear some pink and call it a day.

I also thought about going as a modern-day interpretation of the queen of hearts, you know since I am trying to put myself out there and date and be vulnerable and stuff.

And stuff.


I could wear my heart tights, a heart sweater, my heart earrings, wear my hair up in braids on my head and get a little tiara from a Multi Kulti on Valencia Street and maybe stick some roses in my braids, some bright red lipstick and voila, she’s wearing her heart on her sleeve.

Conceptually I think it’s cute, but that may just be me.

I’m not interested in being some sexy vixen thing for Halloween, but I do like to look pretty.  Of course if sexy happens, then cool, but that’s not always the aim for me when I have dressed up.

Last year I did wear bunny ears with my little girl Thursday that I was nanny for on the day of the holiday, her grandma made her the cutest little bunny outfit and I did her makeup and also sported a pair of ears to music class with her.

So maybe, bunny rabbit is out, now that I realize I was a bunny, however fleeting, last year.

Queen of Hearts it is.

Seems apropos.

I’m going to stop blogging now.

And go back to grinning.


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