Hey you.
You who writes.

You who keeps on writing.

You who pours out your hurt and your joy and your bliss and your ways of being and existing and understanding onto page and screen.

You who hits the submit button again and again. Even though you’ve papered an entire wall in rejection letters, because you know that somewhere there is a home for your words and if you keep trying you will find it.

You who writes in private, in secret, in the darkest back corner of your closet after everyone else has gone to sleep just so you can write the whole of you.

You who writes to follow the trail, to chart the course, to make your own map through the mystery.

You who writes the path to your own redemption, because you know that clawing your way back to forgiveness of self is the only way through.

You who writes in silence, in a whisper, in invisible ink.

You who writes with the risk of being dismissed, dishonored, ignored because the risks of not writing are even greater.

You who writes because nobody else is willing to tell the truth and the truth must be told.

You who writes to bring the perpetrator to justice.

You who writes to fuel the revolution, to feed the fire, to create the necessary unrest.

You who writes to bring the people into the streets.

You who writes so that your children and their children and their children will know.

You who writes until you are bleeding and then uses the words to staunch the flow.

You who writes to lift others even when you are writing through the thick haze of your own tears.

You who writes to shine a harsh and uncompromising light on what is unjust, on the wrong doing, on the abuse occuring in the shadows.

You who writes to unbreak your own heart.

To you who writes to weave the magical stories that lull the babies to sleep at night.

You who writes to make visible the ones who do the hard and lonely and dangerous work and who risk it all just to stay alive.

You who writes in gratitude and thanks that you are able to bring worlds to life on paper.

You who writes to give voice to the things nobody else is willing to say.

You who writes so that the invisible can be seen, the marginalized brought to center, the spotlight moved away from the stars and onto the ones in the background who make the show go on.

You who writes to make a thing real, to recreate the past, to return to yourself, to mark in ink the path of a new beginnings. 

You who writes the body. The heat and salt and sex of it.  The truth of blood and vein and the secrets the bones hold. The soft and wet and want. The body that winds and dances in the shadows. The body that heals trauma by naming and claiming her own pleasure.

You who writes to claim space, to name yourself, to create a new world you can stand to live in.

You who writes to own your history or accept your present or shift your future.

You who keeps writing love letters to the one long gone or the one not yet arrived or to fall in love with the miracle of your own being.

You who writes to make peace with the ghosts, to release the steam, as a substitute for the therapy you cannot afford.

You who writes because the world inside you is so magical and so real and even if nobody else believes you it must exist somehow, represented in concrete form.

You who writes because to not write would be like a form of death, and you’ve died too many times already.

You who writes to bring us all back to life.

You who writes to set the record straight, to hold the story, to alter the dominant narrative.

You who writes to bring hope to the hopeless and give voice the the voiceless, to share the stories of the ones nobody bothers to hear.

You who writes in the face of all that would silence you.

You who writes to craft beauty in the midst of devastation.

You who writes because the force of creation is what gets you out of bed each day.

You who writes to brighten hearts and lift spirits and to make the sun rise in the sky.

You who writes like the ocean, like waves crashing and crashing and crashing again against the shore of what is real.

You who writes the dance, the movement of clouds across the sky, the way the flowers blow in the breeze.

You who writes outside of the lines. Who ignores the rules. Who has no idea about grammar or punctuation or the correct way to spell things, but who writes anyway.

You who writes in an illegible scrawl on purpose to keep the stories safe from eyes unable to see the the beauty of your truth.

You who writes words that rise like smoke and fall like ashes, still alive from the fire.

You who writes to take the swirl of chaos and confusion and, waving pen like magic wand, makes the spinning stop and the truth rise to the surface, clear and true, like a fortune teller conjuring the future from her crystal ball.

You who writes only the necessary, who casts multitudes from scarcity, who takes the story of the entire universe and reduces it to the exact few words that say everything that has ever needed to be said.

You who writes even though they told you that you could not. That should should not. Who writes over the red pen marks and bad grades from teachers who thought writing had to follow the textbook.

You who writes the things that push people up against their own limitations, their prejudice, their hard edged bias, who forces us to see the things we would rather ignore. You who are willing to endure the discomfort of pushback in order to help us all grow.

You who writes the edges and pushes the boundaries and then calls the words back into the center.

You who writes the trauma. Writes the pain. Writes the ugly words that we don’t want to read but can’t turn away from, not because you want to, necessarily, but because you know we all we need to stay present with what is real.

You who writes the worst of the hurricanes and tornadoes of reality and then keeps writing all the way into the eye of the storm where everything is peaceful and beautiful and true.

You who writes the imaginary, the fantasy, the fiction, and in the writing you conjure a world that is deeply real and alive. 

To writes who writes with irrepressible joy bubbling up through your cells, giddy with the knowledge that only you could write this particular story.

You who writes in service to the cause, to the greater good.

You who writes the birth, the death, the honest everyday mundanities of our humanity. The messy and the boring and the deeply human.

You who writes to honor who has come before, to uplift the wisdom of your ancestors and the truth of those who walked the lands long before we were here.

You who writes in the stolen moments, on the grocery store receipts, who scribbles poems on the inside curve of your elbow, inking skin with novels that wash away in the shower but that mark you forever.

You who writes to create a truth that is more true than reality that you are living. 

You who writes under a name not your own in order to write the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

You who writes to understand what you already know and to learn what you need to understand and embrace the unknowing of all that exists beyond comprehension.  

You who writes to remember the details your brain will not hold.

You who writes your way into your own wide open life.

You who writes. Period.

To heal the world. To right the wrongs.  To save a life. 

Because you couldn’t stop, even if you tried.

It is a brave and beautiful thing to create stories in the face of all that would stop you.

You do that. And it is everything.

The post For the ones who write appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

It’s okay to hate today.

To hell with all that positive thinking mumbo jumbo. Toss your gratitude journal to the side, just for now.

It’s okay to wallow.

It’s okay to feel like PMS and Mercury Retrograde and your hour and a half commute and your tantruming nine year old and the headache that won’t go away and the fight you just had with the one you love and the 28 dollars left in your bank account till payday and the dirty house and the way you can’t quite seem to make your purpose in this world a viable option are just too much.

Because guess what. It is too much. Way too much.

And yes. We both know people who have it much worse. Who lay awake at night worried about having a roof over their heads or doing battle with an illness that could take it all away. Who live in uncertainty and violence and everything that is the opposite of safe.

We know that this earth of ours bears witness to things that are beyond words. That people are sleeping in cold, hard streets and children are dying and people are hated for the color of their skin or what god they believe in or who they welcome into their bed at night.

And it sometimes seems there is never, ever enough compassion or action to change it all.

You see and feel all of that. All of that deep and painful reality. All that exists within and beyond you that is so, so much harder than any of this stuff that is getting you down.

And you feel minuscule and impossibly irrelevant in the face of it all.

It can be tempting to write off your own very real experience in comparison.

Because truly, most days your too much is really not all that much at all. Not in the face of homelessness and genocide and fatal car accidents and deep dark depression and sexual violence and all the rest of the deep ache of our wounded planet. In the face of civil inequality and brutality and racism and natural disaster and a nation divided.

It’s absolutely true. In the face of all that, your daily stresses and irritations are next to nothing.

Even your deepest heartache… totally survivable.

Perspective and compassion are infinitely important. You wouldn’t be who you are without these things. They live at the core of your strong and tender heart.

I know this. You know this.

Your empathic soul soaks in the aches of this world and spins them infinitely inside, so close you could touch and feel and name every individual slice of pain.

You feel and you feel and you feel. You couldn’t stop feeling if you tried.

You can take so much and keep standing back up. You can absorb and absorb and absorb and still have room to give.

Nobody is going to argue with that – not for a second.

But sometimes – you strong and tenderhearted soul – you’ve just got to sit down in the corner with your favorite cozy blanket and the saddest possible music and give yourself over to the ugly cry.

You’ve got to wallow and tantrum and feel hopeless and grumpy and disillusioned.

You’ve got to, because that’s what’s real in that moment. Because in that exact moment, there is nothing real but that.

Because that moment, right there. It sucks. It’s hard. Life is not going according to plan or wish or desire. Your heart, she is hurting. The stress and the worry are weighing you down, deep and dark and heavy. No way around it.

And you don’t need the pain Olympics or a complex a relativity equation for bravery or the my-struggle-sucks-worse-than-yours game to help you sort it out.

Because of course you know – even in the worst, there are always blessings. And when you play the comparison game, someone will always win and someone will always lose. We can use it to make ourselves feel better. Or we can use that to make ourselves feel worse.

Or – we just give ourselves permission to feel it all.

If you need permission. If you’ve been waiting for someone to say here, stop for a minute. This place that you’re in? It’s not easy. It hasn’t been easy for a while. And I see that your hurting and I see that you’re tired and damn, I know how the worry eats away at your gut. And I know that today, all you want to do is find a sliver of space and a moment of silence and some open arms.

Consider this your invitation.

Lay it all down love. Here. My arms are outstretched and waiting to hold it for you, just for a bit. I’ve got space for you here on the sofa next to me, and I’ve queued up my best heartbreak playlist. The candles are lit and my heart is open to hear your stories.

And you don’t need to worry about holding it in. Or worry that I’ll judge you. You don’t need to listen to that voice inside that tells you that you shouldn’t, that levels criticism for daring to complain when you’ve got nothing to complain about.

Tell that voice to hush. There’s a time and place for that.

But now is time for you. And if you need we’ll sit and cry together. Or I’ll just listen to you vent and whine and moan and complain – because darling, those are perfectly valid things to do sometimes. If it comes to that, we can wail and moan and roar together, eat ice cream and watch sappy movies and listen to sad songs until those much needed tears finally fall.

And not once do you need to fear judgment for just feeling what you’re feeling. Let the bad stuff suck for just a little while.  Take a minute without searching for a positive spin.  Stop trying to convince yourself that because others have it worse you don’t deserve to feel what you feel and say what you think and wish it could just really be all sunshine and roses and rainbows and unicorns.

Don’t we all at some point just wish it could all be sunshine and roses and rainbows and unicorns?

And when you’re done, when the weight has lifted a little – we’ll walk out into the sun together. And we’ll be grateful, and we’ll remember that it’s up to us to change what we are able to change and send the deepest love to all that we’re powerless to impact.

Because it’s hard to offer peace to the world around you when you’re doing battle with your own heart. And it’s hard to feel what you need to feel if you’ve labeled some feelings unworthy or unacceptable.

What we all need is to feel a little more okay with what is. Not just the pretty and blessed and grateful, but also the gritty and messy and raw.

Because love, you are here to feel. You’re here to love and mend and take action and make change.

You are here to heal.

So give yourself permission to feel the fullness of your emotion, good and bad and cranky and wallowing and full of self-pity sometimes.

Because in doing so, you free the space in yourself to offer the same to others.

Because in doing so, you send a wave of acceptance, inward and outward.

Because in doing so, you open your heart to the world.

And if there is one thing this world needs, it is more wide-open love.  The sort of love I know lives inside your beating heart.

So go ahead. Let it suck, just for today. Let someone be there for you, not because your world is falling apart, but just because this moment – the one you’re in right now – is kinda tough. And it’s worn you out. And you’re tired.

Give your heart a rest. Let someone else pick up the slack for a bit.

And then, when you’re ready – go offer yourself again, a little bit lighter, a little bit more supported – and a whole lot more ready to take on the world.

xo

Jeanette

The post You Are Here to Heal appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

1. When you wake and feel the sadness flood you, take a moment to honor your broken heart.  She is wise and powerful.  She is never anything but exactly what is needed. She will break and break and break again, and still choose love. You know this.  Do not pretend otherwise. Cynicism is not for you, nor lack of hope. What has been reborn now will refuse to die. Nurture it and let it live. Even unmet hope is a blessing. Want teaches, if we let it.

2. Go back to bed for a while. Let her hold you. She is here and present and knows the truth of the pain and the comfort of human arms. Trust in what is offered out of friendship and without expectation. Know that you can take comfort in each other and have that be enough. Nestled bodies, mirrored pain. It is good to be seen and held in this space. Let it be good. We are human and we crave touch. There is no shame in this. Find sleep again for a brief time. Give yourself over to it because you need it badly, more than you need to work right now.

3. Shower. Let the water wash you clean. Instead of frustration at the continued lack of hot water in this apartment, trust that the coolness is purposeful today. It is not heat that you need.  Not the steam rise but the grounding down. Let the cool water bring you down from the rush and the height. Let your feet feel their connection to the earth. Resist the temptation to float above yourself now. You need to go deep inside of this. Feel the shiver rise along your skin. Hug your arms tight around your naked body. Allow yourself to feel exactly what you are feeling. Alone. Cold. Grieving. Fiercely alive.  Raise your face to the spray. Raise your heart to the truth. Raise your entire being to the day that lies ahead.

4. Get dressed. Choose the tight blue pencil skirt that hugs every inch from knee to lower ribs. Add a cropped white lace shirt. It stops a fraction of an inch above the skirt and shows bare skin through it’s weave and the truth inked on your ribs when you move. Your heart will show today anyway, this sliver of raw skin seems only honest. Gold jewelry. Pile it on. Carefully. Take time with the clasp of the bracelet, with the slide of ring over knuckle. Feel the necklace around your neck. The stamped words, a purposeful reminder today. Choice within Grace. Grace within Choice. Feel your adornment as purposeful. Blow-dry your hair into a sleek, straight submission. Find the hard edge within the soft fall.  Be careful with your makeup. Glossy red lips and black-rimmed eyes, for certain. Spanish Amber on wrists and collarbone and behind the ears, the scent of your own seduction. Slip on high heels. Let the line of your leg from calf to hip to waist make them want. This is your right.

5. Go to the coffee shop. The one that always holds space for your best words. Sit on the faux leather couch because there is absolutely nowhere else to be. Look around. See the brick walls, the old door propped inexplicably against the wall. The concrete floor. The exposed beams and ductwork. See the people. Really see them. Allow yourself that luxury. Catalogue them one by one. Know that they live and grieve and love and bleed. Know that they have woken up sad, just like you. They are whole. They have been broken. Someone in this room is walking dead. Someone is full of resilient hope. What lives behind the façade? Nobody really knows. They do not know when they see you either. Can you show them? Can you make the naked pain visible on your face? Will this bring more humanity to this day? Yes? Then do it. Let tears fall right there when a song comes on that brings memory to surface, or when kindness from a love takes you off guard. There is no shame in deep feeling. Stop believing this is so. It is a story that does not serve.

6. Do the work. The work that is your purpose on earth. Make manifest the story in your heart and let the words flow onto the screen. Live raw and wide and vulnerable inside of those words, as if there were no other choice. There is no other choice. You know that. You make a life out of art and art out of your life. You are blessed, you are blessed, you are blessed. Feel that through your sadness. Know that beyond the edges of your grief. It is luxury and gift, hard won and fiercely claimed. Let nobody diminish this for you. Do not relinquish your right to this life. The words? They are why you are here. Do not ignore them today; let them guide you exactly where you need to go.

7. When he brings you gluten free muffins and a homemade card, stop your work and be grateful for the solidity of friendship. When she stays with you almost all day, not because she has to but because she can, feel the gift of her presence. When lunch is bought for you, healing vegetable soup, be thankful for generosity. When a flattering text comes in out of the blue from someone in the next room, accept it as deserved, and smile and blush and feel how lovely it is to be admired. When you pick them up at school and they greet you with joy and homemade cards, be aware of the gift and the grounding and purpose of motherhood.

8. Look at your daughters. Look at them, whole and flawed and goofy and amazing and wild and knowing and resilient. Know that life will bring them pain, and one day someone will break their gentle hearts. And that one day they will likely be the one to bring someone else’s gentle heart it’s own shatter. Know also that those hearts will beat as stubborn and true as yours does, because this is all they will have ever seen. Their entire lives. Wide open love. Giving fullness. Living from center.   Compromise and trust and faith and a commitment to kindness and the perfect knowing of their own wild souls. Let that be your truest gift to the universe.

9. Make a date with yourself and keep it. Heed the call for the burn of needle that comes at times like these. Follow the voice that tells you to mark this day of (re)birth with ink on bone. Know which words are right.  Take yourself there alone. There are things one does with others and paths that must be walked without company. For you, this is a solitary space. Make the plan. You will bare your skin.  Lie still. Find your breath. Find your breath. Find your breath. Let the pain guide you to your center. Allow it to travel to your edges. Typewriter font on ribs this time. A proclamation of uncompromising selfhood. A commitment ceremony to spirit and soul and purpose.  I am this, body and soul. Burn me, drown me, tell me lies, I will still be who I am.

10. And then, when the plan does not work. When the schedule runs behind and you show up late and the artist has gone home and the ATM does not work and your credit cards won’t release an advance and you start to realize that it will not happen, let your shoulders fall and allow yourself the disappointment. There are some things we want that are not ours to be have. Some weeks will not provide you with what was wanted, regardless of how deep your desire runs. Do not deny yourself this simple heartache. All of grief demands it’s own expression in it’s own time. Suppression is only a delay of the inevitable.

11. Take yourself home. See the prayer candle burning on your patio. Kneel before it. A most holy death. Reverence. Endings before beginnings. Beginnings hidden inside of the end of things. The resilient flame, almost 24 hours old. A letting go that stays steady. This is sometimes the way of things. We can say goodbye and still hold true to what is true. We can release love to be what it will be and yet still love in wholeness and fullness. The flame calls you to honesty. The light illuminates the pathway home. Sometimes to die is the only way to find continued life. A song plays in the background at random. Be Still. Be Still. Be Still. Yes, maybe now you can be still.

12. Fill your home with candle flame. Light every one in the house until the glow fills every corner.  Sit by yourself. Alone by choice this night. Because there are nights when alone is the only true thing we can possibly be. When company and laughter and talking would be more false that we can bear. Avoid the music that holds the core of this story. Avoid it fully and completely, until you can avoid it no more. And then let it play. Turn it up. Fill yourself with it until the tears come. And then let them come. Let them fall. Let them shake your shoulders and pound your heart and twist your body. This life, it is not as you imagined it. Full of blessings upon blessings, oh holy yes. And holding grief upon grief intermingled with the good. There is room for both. For holy gratitude and the depths of sadness that runs like groundwater beneath it all. Embrace the complexity. Own the paradox. Right in the center of this space is the core of all that there is.

13. Sit down to write. In the dark. Let your fingers fly across the keyboard in a way they have not in months. Feel the freedom of truth spill.See what can be released with the tears. It is always interesting to learn what lies on the other side. Grief fully unleashed is its own wild muse. Just you and the candlelight and the words.With all of your unmet dreams and all the hope that refuses to die.  With the visions and the knowing and the disappointment and the grief and the blessings and the want and the quiet and the spaciousness and the light and the darkness and the music and the yearning and the truth and the love and the love and the love.

14. Know, in the end, it is only the love that will ever matter. Know this in your bones. Know it as the only truth. Know it as purpose and meaning and light. Know it as you know yourself. Deep and solid and whole. This is your 38^th birthday. It is only one day in a long line of many days you have been granted. Only one of many you will hopefully be given. Give thanks, even for this sadness. It is proof that you are alive. And this, in the end, is the one holy gift for which we must always be grateful.

15. When fatigue finally comes do not fear the dark. Let your body feel the honest weariness in your bones. Let it take you over. Blow out the candles one by one, except the prayer candle outside that lights the way home. Remove your adornments as carefully as your placed them on your body. Hang up your clothing and tidy your space. Dismantling what was created in love can be as much of an offering as the building, if you let it. Turn off the ringer on your phone. Let the quiet be our gift to yourself. Slow your breath. Feel it steady and sure. Hear your own heart beating as clear and true as ever. Sink into the cool white sheets. Feel the air of the fan on your naked skin. Surround yourself with pillows. Curl onto your side. Let the quiet of this night be its own gift.But do not go to sleep without blessing it all.

Blessed be this worthy sadness. Blessed be this knowing love. Blessed be the finding home. Blessed be the kitchen slow dance. Blessed be the magical sunset. Blessed be the strong arms. Blessed be the true north. Blessed be the unmet hope. Blessed be the unwavering light. Blessed be the hard goodbye. Blessed be this holy life.

Blessed be. Blessed be. Blessed be.

The post 15 Things to do when you wake up sad on your birthday: appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

And then it does. Just like that. The exact thing you had been longing for, wrapped with a bow and delivered to your doorstep. Right when you least expected it. Right when you needed it most.

The sky clears. Burdens lift. Old, limiting stories are wiped out. Boom. Long dwelled upon fears rendered entirely obsolete.

The universe smiles and says ‘Here, take this. It’s for you. You’ve been so brave and so patient. I’ve been waiting for just the right time to give it’.

Game change moment. Things are possible today that were impossible yesterday. Anything could happen.

Perfection?   Little chance.
A free ride?  Certainly not.
Smooth sailing from here on out?  Un-freaking-likely.

But still, in that moment, when the news is delivered. In that moment the sun is shining like possibility incarnate, you’re driving down the freeway with the windows down and your hair blowing crazy in the wind. The song on the stereo is Hollywood soundtrack perfect for the moment. Like the universe dialed in the most utterly perfect setting just for this occasion. And then that one piece of news shifts your trajectory in an utterly essential way and you feel yourself settle into space just a little bit differently.

In that moment your eyes shine and your mouth curves in a smile. In that moment you let out a powerful exhale and speak some divine gratitude. In that moment, it is perfectly clear.

Anything could happen. I can. And it will. And it does.

And there is nothing to say but thank you.

The post anything could happen appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

a running list of ordinary blessings {6.24.12}
a new book of poetry. black dress with pink flowers. farmer’s market heirloom tomatoes. a solo trip to the library. Terry Tempest Williams, Anne Lamott AND a deliciously mindless mass market novel. shoes with ties that lace around my ankles. the smell of sandalwood and sweet orange. the heavy weight of desert heat. pinot gris in the fridge waiting to be opened. a movie date with my two girlies to see Brave. dark chocolate almonds to smuggle in to the theater in my purse. a slow day of very little work. a little girl who asks if she can learn to make her own flower essences. a friend who reminds me I was not made for mediocrity. photos of a wild haired beauty from across the sea. discovering new music from old friends. a neighborhood full of friends for my children to play with the way kids are meant to play. words. always words. wonderful night with my wee girls, who were sweet and well behaved and so very grateful. a female heroine who is NOT saved by a handsome prince. belly full of buttered popcorn.  movie soundtrack of gaelic and bagpipes, the music of my heart. 10pm ice cream sundaes, just because. bedtime cuddle in my bed, sandwiched between the two not-so-little girls that have my heart. the wine still waiting for after they nod off. photos delivered to a goddess, with humility and gratitude for what she gave me. words viewed through wine and glass.  getting lost in poetry and quotes and philosophy into the wee hours of the morning.  dark chocolate melting on my fingers and cool mint on my tongue. lucky penny in the parking lot that reminded me, once again, that in spite of it all – this life is a most holy collection of wonders.

The post blessed be my day. appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

Blessed be the long, slow slide into desire. The swift plunging wound to the heart. The bleeding out onto the kitchen floor.

Blessed be the fierce of want and the howl of despair and the swan dive of surrender.

Blessed be the indignation of right and the never more naked of wrong.

Blessed be your strong smooth body and your roadmap of scars and brittle bones that give way under the weight of lives unlived.

Blessed be the unmet passion, the ruthless boredom, the absolute certainty of regret.

Blessed be the sweet laughter. The hard fuck. The bitter fight. The soft impossible forgiveness.

Blessed be the restless seeker. The relentless urgency. The unanswered call.

Blessed be the giving up. The hope unraveled. The void at the end. The clenched fists and the desperate grasping and the way it all slides away when the time comes.

Blessed be your trembling breath and your strong knees. Blessed be your siren song and your briny tears and your frantic prayer.

Blessed be your violin body, your electric hipbone, your staircase ribs.

Blessed be your slaughtered dreams and your cynical projection. Blessed be your fire of initiation. Your ritual of comfort. Your secret shame.  Your whispered confession. Blessed be your primal roar.

Blessed be the rejection. The hollowed out, disregarded heart. Blessed be the end of the rope, the absence of expectation, the way it all gives way eventually.

Blessed be the blood and guts and gore of it all.

Blessed be the wanton emptiness of greed and the brutal havoc of love and the way peace grows in between cracks in cement.

Blessed be the dirty street corner hustle and the pretty surface of things and where they meet in the most sacred center.

Blessed be the harsh divinity. The winged flight. The salt skin. The symphony of lust.

Blessed be the holy and the worship. Blessed be the sacred mother. Blessed be the faithless edges. Blessed be the ritual of liturgy and agnostic devotion. Blessed be the profane and the provocation.

Blessed be the brazen orgy, the unabashed revelry, the stained glass cathedral of your hungry flesh.

Blessed be the solitary pilgrimage and the long journey home.

Blessed be the one who contains herself. Blessed be the one who contains us all.

Blessed be the truth that demands reckoning and the goodbye that wrenches secrets from behind closed lips. Blessed be the sucker punch bruises.

Blessed be smooth slide of sun behind the mountains. Blessed be the wise desert and the pounding sea.

Blessed be the sweet swell of words. The luxury of punctuation. The silent spaces between bodies. The ragged sigh of breath on bone.

Blessed be the poet and the poem and the one between them who has no words of her own.

Blessed be the plagiarism, the thievery, the rash disregard for origin, the gratitude for the beginning of things.

Blessed be our free fall into destiny. Our slow burn. Our consuming fire. Blessed be the breaking and the becoming.

Blessed be the ugly. Blessed be the sweet sin. Blessed be the rage. Blessed be the grace.

Blessed be. Blessed be.  Blessed be.

In the end, all words are just another way to say amen.

The post Blessed Be appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

{on my desk sits a black fabric journal.  it is a plain, ordinary, nondescript book. from the outside, it looks as if it could not possibly hold anything important.  only I know that it holds the most valuable thing I possess. my story.}

5.22.09

I’m in birthday party hell.

I’m standing in the middle of Dave and Busters (which, for those who are not familiar, is like Chuck E Cheese on steroids).  The bright flashing lights and the incessant beeping and buzzing have brought me to a level of overstimulation that mimics a really trippy high.  All around me I see glass-eyed parents and kids, feeding tokens into games, fixated on collecting long snakes of tickets to trade in for any number of crappy plastic toys or candy.  It’s like the very worst of Vegas, ripe for a membership drive for a future meeting of gamblers anonymous.

And in the midst of one of those spectacularly surreal ‘this is my life?’ moments, when Julie is deliberating between multiple versions of Hannah Montana flashlight key chains and Bella tries to stretch her points as far as they can possibly stretch (consumer culture microcosm anyone?) my cell phone buzzes in my pocket. And then buzzes again, and again, and again.

I pull it out and I see four texts from Mani.  My first thoughts it that something is wrong, but then I open my phone and all the flashing and buzzing and chaos fades away as I read:

I had the sudden urge to tell you I love you
no matter what and for always
and to take you on a boat,
sailing toward the horizon
until we couldn’t see the shore
and have you look around
at the endless expanse of sparking sea,
and realize that it belonged to you.
every last drop.
and I wanted to let you in on my secret,
because I know we can breathe underwater.
because it is time you realized
that you will never drown.
we don’t drown. we adapt.
we don’t get swept away.
we drift, we ride current, we grow gills, we grow wings.

And in the moment that I absorbed those words I let that exquisite act of kindness wash over me. I let her love and compassion and wisdom soak into me in waves of bliss and I had an experience of momentary but utterly perfect serenity.

It is not just that she wrote those words (for I know her to be a woman who experiences her existence in poem), nor the fact that she would hold flawed, messed up little me with such utter tenderness (for even can occasionally accept that I am worthy of such emotion).  No – it was none of those things that evoked such reverence.  What matters is that she took those thoughts, those feelings, those words, the cadence of that poem and she sent it spinning out into the universe directly to me and placed it in my heart like the most precious treasure.

And I can’t help but wonder – what if every time I thought of someone with tenderness and compassion or gratitude, I took the next step and gifted them with that in the purest form possible?  What if we sent our love spinning out into the universe more often?  Once every day.  Ten times.  Twenty.  One hundred.  What if we did it and shared it and then others followed suit?

What if we gave it just one day, and every time we thought of someone with love – even if it’s not someone with whom we normally interact – we took the time to let them know? If every time we were inspired by a line on a blog we took a moment to make a few extra mouse clicks and leave a comment?  If every time someone opened the door for us we looked them right in the eye, connected ourselves to them through our shared humanity and not only said thank you, but meant it and felt it with every part of our being.

Mani could have had those thoughts tonight in the midst of caring for her girls or studying for her midwifery exam or a million other things that fill her life to overflowing and pushed them away as nothing more than thoughts.  But she didn’t, she held on to them and gave them shape and sent them to me on a crazy night in the middle of a crazy week filled with guilt and blame and self-recrimination and bitchy, snappy base level parenting and stress in a ball that pounds in my chest.  She gave them to me, and she didn’t just change things for me, she changed things for everyone I will come in contact with tomorrow.  And the next day.  And the next.

Because if she can hold me in such tenderness and I can allow myself to be held, I feel certain that I can extend that outward in all directions.

And really, that’s all that needs to happen to change the world. `

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