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I should be suspicious…

Orphaned

Two Owls Calling

Who makes these changes?
I shoot an arrow right,
It lands left.
I ride after a deer and find myself chased by a hog.
I plot to get what I want and end up in prison.
I dig pits to trap others and fall in.
I should be suspicious of what I want.

~Jalaluddin Rumi

Photo: Guillaume Roche. Luxor, Egypt. (Photo: Guillaume Roche. Luxor, Egypt.)

Recently Ive grown suspicious.

God appears to be acting in my life.

Even worse, others seem to be conspiring on his behalf.

I resent this.

I don’t want God,

showing up now,

like a birth mother

after all these years.

What’s done is done.

I am my own child.

(Aren’t I?)

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Weeping Day

Welcome to my…

Kelly & Lila

“…When we can no longer think, reason or manage our way out of the crisis we find ourselves in – then what we are left with is instinct…”
~Sharon Blackie

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The wide expanse of Wednesday has long been my precious writing day.

Enter the 2016 election cycle.

I weep now as much as I write, now more than ever, except for once, when I was home alone, in the eighth grade, on a Sunday afternoon, and the television played Born Free.

But that was a flood of grief at once, and this has been leaking for weeks, even before 11/9, ever since the tape–the one that reminded me what it is to be a woman in the United States.

I am heartbroken.

It may be that the President Elect reminds me too much of my paternal figure. (Charismatic. Entitled.) It may be that he reminds me of all the…

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Healing the heart of the past

The legacy of the heart…

Two Owls Calling

Many ancient impressions live on in the genes we inherited from our parents and ancestors. These, too, need to be made conscious, lest they manifest as disease or as seemingly inexplicable urges to behave in certain ways or to pursue certain ideas.
(The Path of Practice: A Woman’s Book of Healing with Food, Breath, and Sound;
Maya Tiwari)

My Aunt Trish, in her twenties, just after her mother died of heart disease. My Aunt Trish, in her twenties, just after her mother died of heart disease.

50 is a plateau from which I survey my past and future, following which I enter my “fifties”–the decade (or shortly thereafter) that took a chunk of my relatives–including my mother, her parents, her brother, and just this past week: one of her baby sisters.

Given the overlapping of generations common to large Irish Catholic families, my Aunt Trish and I were teenagers together. When I was in Junior High, we traveled to Disney World and…

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let your heart be light…

My heart takes me from this bed, in this home, filled with family, into the future–alone, an old woman, in a wheel chair, celebrating Christmas without gifts, or a tree, or a meal to prepare, or obligations to fulfill…

Kelly & Lila

Mary & the Angel Gabriel, from Julie Vivas, the Nativity Heart to Heart, Mary & the Angel Gabriel, The Nativity, Julie Vivas

I wake in the wee hours of the morning on Christmas Eve day, too early to get up, but too late to fall back to sleep because my heart has something to say.

It is ready to release the heaviness it carries at Christmas.

Christmas Past…

My heart shares the weight of all those years shuffling between houses after the divorce. The heaviness of leaving a parent behind. The longing to fill the void between those whose love once created life.

It talks to me about my mother’s drinking, her loneliness, her pain, her efforts. How it carried that weight too.

It shows me my first Christmas apart. In the Rockies. The emptiness. The space. The breath.

It moves to my first Christmas in my own apartment. The joy. The simplicity. The light.

Christmas Future…

My heart takes…

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Happy Christmas Grieving Day!

Next year:
Happy Christmas Eve eve.
What grieves you?

Kelly & Lila

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I wake heavy and slow. I pull on a long skirt and grab the men’s flannel shirt that I picked up at the second hand store.

I check the fire. I light candles. I put on Christmas music. I consider my to do list. (The one I had been eager to address.)

I fill a bowl of kitchari. I sit on the couch. I open the computer. I read.

I realize I’m sad.

I google: Christmas Date with Mom; and then add: Kelly Salasin.

I find my post from 2009. I critique my writing. I begin editing. Line by line tears fill my eyes. I close the computer. I finish chewing. I sob.

I worry someone might hear me. I hold my heart. I say, Ow, ow, ow.

I read more of my Christmas writing from years past. I feel soothed. And tired. I realize that I always write in…

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522-1556

What’s in a number…

Kelly Salasin

my mom’s phone was disconnected today
and although she’s been dead for three years
it felt like the umbilical cord had been ripped between us

my stepfather had finally dropped her outgoing message a few months back
until then we could call
and hear her voice
the one before she got sick
before she herself had an umbilical cord
to an oxygen machine
in her living room

Just a simple 609-522-1556
and I could call
and leave her a message.
“Hi Mom, how are you?  Aidan is three now.”
“Hi Mom, Lloyd has the lead in his school play.”
“Hi Mom, Merry Christmas,  You’d be 60 today.  You’d hate that.”

609 522 1556
“That’s my mother’s number,  Isn’t it honey?
It says it’s disconnected.
How could that be?”

Later I find that my stepfather is changing the phone into his name
and somehow they disconnected the line.
What if he’s…

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