After years of exhaustive, mind-numbing, soul-crushing research and a lifetime’s supply of tears—I have found this to be true.
Sadness is pretty much at the root of anger. And jealousy. And insecurity. And, and, and…
Are you mad? What are you sad about waaaay underneath all that rage?
What is anger protecting?
What is so raw that you’ll pick a bar-fight in order NOT to look at it.
Hey, listen, don’t kill the messenger!
Tell your bodyguard to back off.
Love you,
Carry on,
xox
Have you ever hugged a porcupine? Yeah me neither.
Although lately I could swear that I walk away from some hugs covered in quills.
I’ve developed the good sense to steer clear of the obvious porcupine people—the toxic, difficult, hard to love ones.
I don’t even own the suit of armor it took to get close to them anymore.
I think I sold it years ago at a garage sale.
Anyhow, lately I’ve suffered some pretty prickly encounters with previously un-prickly people.
Which surprised me. Then it didn’t. Because I had an Ah-ha.
Let’s hear it for those Ah-ha moments!
The other day while I was pulling embedded quills from my forcepts (ouch) I had time to think, and it occurred to me that certain people (The obvious porcupine people) wear their quills facing out, mostly as a defense, and after a while—people tend to leave them alone.
While others wear their quills on the inside—hurting only themselves in the process.
I saw a video recently of a snake that swallowed a porcupine whole. It was gross but kinda cool. Anyway, the poor mis-guided snake who never received the DO NOT EAT PORCUPINE memo died soon afterwards, the quills rupturing all of it’s internal organs.
Eventually, I suppose we all figure this out—because the pain gets too great …and we’re smarter than a snake.
We take our quills and turn them inside-out just before we discard them for good—as an act of self-loving transformation—in order to save our own lives. It leaves us raw and vulnerable, and some innocent (or not so innocent) people may be stuck by our pointedness in the process.
Note to self: Hug at your own risk. Oh, and use oven mitts.
I know for me, during times of intense introspection and change, as my quills work their way from the inside-out, I get pretty prickly, and if I’ve left a quill or five in your arms during a hug—I’m sorry (Raphael).
It’s all about empathy and compassion you guys. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve gotta go watch a video of a porcupine eating a pumpkin.
Carry on,
xox
There she floats, on a cloud, halo glowing, with cherubs at her feet.
Her disapproving eyes cast upwards toward the heavens, beseeching God to take mercy on my shriveled up raisin of a soul.
Casbah Mary.
She is my backyard-living-room Mary, who inhabits the outside “casbah” as it has come to be known — or the den of inequity, as I’m sure she would refer to it.
Shit goes down back there.
Being that it is the most used area of our house, it is where you will find copious amounts of food, wine and gossip, cigarettes, raunchy stories, raucous laughter, unending barrages of f-bombs and sex (I think there was sex, I can’t remember anymore) and did I mention waaaaay too much booze? (probably why I can’t remember).
She hears it all. She bears witness. Hands crossed over her chest, feigning an imminent heart attack, shocked at all the hedonism,
She watches it all without uttering a word. There’s a lot to be said for stoic silence.
The little naked cherubs just giggle, they’re like honey badger — they don’t give a shit.
You see, I hung her out there for a reason.
For protection and guidance — not judgement; yet my Catholic upbringing makes me want to apologize to her when it gets particularly salacious back there. I often lower my voice and wince when I curse, or throw a “sorry” in her direction when I let a “fuck” fly.
I had a friend pause once, in the middle of a juicy story, and beg me to turn Casbah Mary toward the wall, “I swear, her face” she grimaced, emptying her wineglass, “she looks disappointed in me — like my mother!”
Although she reigns supreme over the virtual Valley version of Sodom and Gomorrah, Casbah Mary has bestowed her heavenly grace on her surroundings several times: saving things from breaking, warding off criminals — even blowing around so wildly in a windstorm late one night after a party, making such a racket, that I got out of bed to investigate, only to find that we had left all of the candles burning…in a windstorm…hey, I said there was too much alcohol.
Can you say thank you and I’m sorry in the same sentence?
Thank you Casbah Mary and your creepy little naked babies — for gracing a wall of our home and protecting our family; for remaining silent in your obvious judgement of our shenanigans – and I’m sorry about all the shit we put you through from March thru October.
Carry on & Happy Sunday you guys,
xox
