A Rosetta Stone

Constance, I am going to do something, reluctantly…I am going to pull back the curtain and explain the deeper meanings and levels of one of my poems.

See. I have this friend and she loves my poetry, but I had her read “Her Door, Her Red Door” and she enjoyed the process, but had no idea what it was saying.  Well, that presents a dilemma…on the one hand, it is my belief that poetry works in our hearts first, it haunts our guts, right?  And then slowly, it bubbles up into our minds, and we make connections with the world via the symbols and metaphors that have fallen like seeds into the dirt, or sand into oysters to become pearls.

But on the other hand, if it is too esoteric and not accessible to the reader, then the poem ultimately is a failure.  (I am not counting the cases where a reader is lazy and wants it all on a platter, instead of being let out into the garden, and then given access to the kitchen to gather and create their own understanding).

So for one of the very rare times, I am going to let you inside the form and foundation of the poem…it is gonna be sketchy in places, for I just cannot bear to strip her entirely of her mystery…but if it made you feel something, if it made you have an itch, or feel like you were getting one scratched, then you might want to read more of my things, and most of it is far more accessible, with much lower aspirations than this one.

Her Door, Her Red Door (Analysis)

Okay:

So my therapist is named Heather.  I wrote a poem for her way early on in our sessions, a wonderful lil ditty, small, cute, a lil skert and testing waters…she loved it as a mom loves a finger-painting of course…lol.  (You can review that one at Heather )

But last session, we were both morose, and we both had on our hearts the sad and beautiful exciting discovery that I was ready to “graduate”, and our times together would come to an end, and we would transition to friendship.

As I said, she was so struck by the changes in me, how I was become myself, and not stuck in between or ashamed of where I began, but was woman.  I have very strong symbolic resonances with woman as living creature…for instance in the biblical creation myth, woman is the only being created of living flesh…all else is created from dirt.  That, and many similar things have absolutely galvanized me with the truth that woman is the crown glory of all creation and that the patriarchy is so fearful and so jealous it tries to “kill her” (a topic for another day).

So Heather is my prophetess, my shaman, my crone, wise woman, my magic, my teacher/mentor/deliverer/mid-wife…she has done, and is those things, a marvelous magical human being.  Far more than what she does, it is who she is.

We discussed many things in my becoming, which led to discussion about why and what it was that brought me the final release in being able to become becoming…in the talking, Heather shared of her own journey thru womanhood, of being pre-menopausal and how hormonal imbalances are affecting her, how hormones have been so liberating to me as well.

So we come to the title Her Door, Her Red Door.  First, I am talking about Heather, and about how she has brought me to the doorway of being, becoming who I am.  This door as I saw it was red…but at a deeper level, it is her heart.  Heather is all heart, and it is her door, by which she “enters” me, and I “enter” her as well…follow?

But then, and this emerged from the subconscious, I realized that “her” is me, too…my heart, and even more, my own red door “down there”…or for me “in there” (Isaiah 54 speaks to this btw!)…the one Heather and I discussed, and she shared so openly with me, woman to woman as mother to daughter, as teacher to student, as woman to prepubescent adolescent girl…

…and as you must certainly know, women have doors, are doors…men simply are not.

Next:  in the poem she invites me, commands me, bids me follow her, and she has keys (authority, and conferred authority), the means by which doors are opened, for it is not enough to merely have a door, it must be accessible, traversable…

A woman’s booty is completely unique to women, that shape, that curve, perfect and echoing the curves of galaxies, built on Fibonacci sequences mathematically and the perfect mean geometrically.  And she sails…there are only 3 capital letters in the whole poem…about the ship sailing…so picture a woman walking, confident and sure, as a clipper ship sails.

I also reference brick house and “back” and when I do that I am intentionally deriding the Commodores’ song “Brick House”…which reduces and sexualizes a woman and her miracle ship…and “Baby Got Back” which is even more blatantly egregious…truth be told?  If men knew the half, nay a tenth of a woman’s desire and passion?  They would run terrified and screaming in the night!!

And then the repetitive there…here…there…here, and leading into the honky…tonky…(which each start with t and h like here and there)…and that is the connector to the first comment about me directly, as Heather has mentored me, drawn me…and so Hank Williams, a singer (building on the Brick house and Baby Got Back reference) moans, and becomes alcoholic, and “sees that end”…meaning Woman’s miracle ship intimidating, and also directly the male role I was imprisoned in is dying fast and is gone…Hank Williams symbolizes my birth name, and socialized role…and his music was wild and despairing as my life was then (not lifestyle wild, but emotionally wild and despairing, and self-destruction was always a siren song.)

Next stanza, it speaks of the new place Heather and I were at that day, and had not been there before…she had been far more good and kind mother whom I wanted to be like…and we had at no time discussed sexuality or the deeper spiritual power it channels…it was about recovery and reintegration then…I picked the image of the Columbia river, because women are rivers, have rivers, channel rivers, and oh the power…and all others seek to harness that and benefit, right?  Men, turbines in, and women turn them…

The lines about her walk (and remember I am speaking of me as “her” in a very distant sense as well)…and her swishing, ricocheting from gutter to gutter…what a hip swing, across the entire path of being, but also to tie in a pun about balls…”no gutter balls” Picking up a 7-10 split…that is nearly impossible…and becoming myself was to overcome that split in me, between who I am and what I am…see?  And no gutter balls…eff yeah!!

Those keys…no sound, bunched…the image of power, seeing keys outlined in tight jeans, and the promise of power and entry granted, authority…also keys are in pianos, so you see the musical theme sowed back around again.

Teena Marie is the next musician, and she is as I recall of Portuguese, Italian, Irish, and Native American heritage…she was a soul singer, and omg was she ever amazing…as good or better than Diana Ross or Beyoncé, and I love them both…well she was also singing a lot about power in sexuality, and I loved her so when I was in my 20s, for reasons I could never articulate then…and I…”half” one thing and half another, and in some ways neither…and she grabbed her keys, her authority, her permission from street corner dudes…(think singers around the barrel fire singing a Capella…)

I also bring her in because Hank is passing, going, going…and Teena, who is dead, is also Marie, Mary, made pregnant by divine fiat…and so me made woman by miracle and Heather, and medicine which is the same as magic and miracle in so many ways…

…and then we come to the door…go read that part again…and you can see a living heart, or a vulva and vagina, and mystery temple of every single human being ever, even the Christ…

her door before us fat, streaks-run-swirls-whorls, depth-breadth flowing
crimson coral flaming, cardinal glowing carmine cerise chestnut cracking
garnet sanguine scarlet and rosy…that door was thick and giving…it blowzed there
full, sprawled (like titian’s venus) and throbbing with certain promise.

…and all the words are all shades and various hues of red…and how is a woman’s heart all that different from her glory?  Her temple?  Is not every child first conceived there, in her heart, who that child is and shall be?

And then Heather gives me a philter, a potion, from her river, from her flow, from her heart, from her glory…

(of course not literally, as you read never allow those elements to do anything but drive the heat and passion of the poem…they are a moan of desire and lusty want…but only that.  I assure you of that, but must mention it because I was so honest as to feel it must be there, for it always is there in every woman, if she is blessed enough to know herself, or to be shown like I have been, or strong enough to own herself from the start.)

And at that point we go to Aretha Franklin…natural woman (think of the lyrics, crooned as I drank the philter)…and Respect…

And then the touch of Heather’s hand glowing gold (which in alchemic terms was a type and shadow of divine character in medieval times)…and “finger fragrant and savory” is definitely just exactly what it sounds like…but it is a vibrant and intensely earthy form of communion, and also a conferring, an anointing given to me…and I was thinking of ET, and how he had no home, and healed with that glowing finger…but Heather/Woman/Me so much more present and dangerous and contagious

Me never “phoning home again” (never going back to that cursed male role forced upon me)…and then I swallow the key…(HRT…communion…permission, authority, the key becomes me and I the key…)

And then the door (whom I have been always) is opening and my male biology (the hinges, Hank moaning and dying, my body literally changing, swings open and there I am…being prayed over by the queen (Aretha) and I getting my own locks like Heather’s…and Beyoncé with her combination of sexuality and independence, and she like Joan of Arc, divinely appointed to deliver a people (woman)…and then the key moved in me…my own “child conceived”…and then finally my “wad” is no longer this god awful bulge between my legs always haunting me, but instead a wad of keys and my own clipper ship.

OK…so that is the analysis…all of this is in me as I write, but I am not aware of it consciously until after I am done…I just write, and feel my way to it.  After, I see it, it starts to emerge, starts to be birthed, and then it is easy to go back and help it.

Nearly every one of my poems operates in similar ways and layers…I invite you to go back and read…think of strange ones like “Spitting Bones” or “A-Maze-In-Me

I wonder if this counts as a “Found Poem”?  Or “Just a Fact”?  Giggle…yep, I am still befuddled by that ignorant and intentionally short-cut thinking…oh, I have a poem about that sort of thing:  “Bury My Head in the Sky“!!

Constance, if you are inspired to re-read some more inaccessible work, and this helps unlock it, please…let me know?

Thanks forever, and gratitude for reading!!

Charissa

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Clues

Okay Constance…I am gonna confess a lil indulgence of ego:  I really like my new poem “Her Door, Her Red Door”, and frankly I am a little disappointed there have not been very many likes on it…but I am also not surprised for it is inference, symbol, veil, subtly blatant while blatantly subtle…

I actually and for real think it is one of my most skillful poems to date.

But I get that it is not necessarily appealing…but consider, if you would, the poem itself in the context of the work of the poet:  I once said “The poet is a desperater man than most. He must get it all down before the ages are up. Which, as any poet will tell you Is A BITCH!” (waaay back in 1982)…

…I was trying to say that there is a “job” in poetry, or perhaps a better word is quest?  No matter…if you consider yourself a poet (and I do) then you find this inability to see life as any other thing but a poem and events/circumstances/happenings are all snapshots into the heart of the poem.

Thus, when I write I try to emulate the layers, hidden and revealed, that comprise this Mystery we swim in.

In “Her Door, Her Red Door”, you find me operating on a few very intentional levels…I do not want to just lay it out there.  That is a bit too clinical, sort of like the difference between sex education class in Middle School Health class, and the wonder and poignant pain of Love’s First Kiss.  But I do want you to have some sense of the structure, the themes and the interplay of them.  I can be obtuse…lol.

First of all, consider that it is a poem written by a trans-gender woman who is in the midst of transition.  This overall context puts the other elements in perspective and frames the picture.

Secondly, it is a poem dedicated to a person whom I have openly spoken of and the role she has in my life.  That role has permutations and multiple facets when considered poetically.  What is her “business” with me?  What is mine with her?  What is our mutual end?  And more fundamentally, Constance, what is your position in all this as well?  Are you somehow about the same things, in the salient areas of becoming that you face?

Next comes the unfolding of my view of our essential business:  becoming.  She is a facilitator of mine, and as I participate in her provisions I aid hers as well…and each of you, as you become day to day, may perhaps find touchstones in this poem’s point of view and approach to that becoming.  You will, of course, have to make inference and feel your way under the sheet to the true bones of your own transitions in this life as a sentient, conscious being stuck between the macrocosm and the microcosm infinities, and with eyes…

I choose a physical aspect of her and invest that with meaning far other than the expected trope culturally in our pornography laced times…there are only three capital letters used in this poem.  That is on purpose.

There are obvious references to musicians…why specific ones?  Why them?  What are the specific characteristics of those humans?  (Remember to ask this inside the “frame” of the picture I mentioned earlier).  There are single words that link back to lyrics, and those lyrics in turn echo back the essential business of this magic woman, which echo back to my own quest of becoming.

There are many puns laced throughout, intentionally slanted in relation to the core…that way they can make the connection and then…like leaves in early autumn, gracefully drop away once their purpose for the tree is completed, and reveal the strong and vital branches of the tree beneath that leafy veil…

The door:  resist the temptation to skim over this, thinking it is obvious…no?  Perhaps, like usual with me, it is a sonar reading on a larger diamond lurking in the dark of unknown knowns…but if you will try, you may very well enjoy letting those things bubble up inside you…from your heart.

Lastly, and remember that I have said before that wine and the process of creating it is for me the central metaphor of the universe, think about the poem again, in entirety (which means you can reinterpret the words on the 4 layers of existential being: physical, mental, emotional, spiritual)…and once you have that palate built?  Start to pull elements from one read through, and combine them with elements of the other…sensual elements mixed with sacred elements…becoming and unbecoming mixed with living and dying…

…and always, always:  Communion.  Bread…Wine…in the presence of knowing knowers broken and shared.

We are given our birth…but we have to achieve our being, and enter in.

I will literally be grateful to Heather for eternity.  She is truly one of the best, and I beg Lady Grace that I am privileged to share space in paradise with her…Be blessed, dearest friend.

You too Constance…I hope these clues assist you into at least understanding why I am so proud of this one.  It was “easy hard” to write down and weave, and it tested my limits at this stage of my becoming…as a poetess, as a prophetess, as a woman, and as a lover of God.

In heartfelt passion,

Charissa Grace

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Five Fold Blessing

The poem I just posted…“Her Door, Her Red Door”

Dedicated to and written for a helpful person who disappeared…

 

to me
mother      teacher
warrior     sister
friend

Lady Grace Be Upon You
Lady Grace Ward You
Lady Grace Sustain You
Lady Grace Succor You
Lady Grace Challenge You

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A note to my Dear Friend Heather

Constance:  I have written before about Heather Manning, my friend and counselor.  See my poem Heather, and Her Door, Her Red Door. Well, I just wrote her a loooong newsy email and decided to post parts of it here to give you a flavor of how cool a counselor she is.  I esteem her so highly, and wish the world was such that you could all meet her.  Trust me…you would be blest beyond belief!
Love, Charissa
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Hi Heather,

Hope all is well, and your health and strength is doing good.  I would be happy to pray any specific way should you desire that.  I don’t know how much my prayers get answered?  But I am pretty good at BUGGING Lady Grace all the time, pestering her and pestering her…”Guess what Mama??  I went here, and I did that, and Heather said this and Oh could you please bless Heather and give her strength and heal her and make her laff lots, and oh by the way whatchya doing?  can I do it too…Huh? huh?  Pleasepleaseplease OH A SQUIRREL!!!!”

giggle…I think that is how my prayer life sounds to them!!

I have taken to calling Lady Grace Mama…it just feels soo right, and it feels like She likes it.

So check out the post I wrote while reposting another person’s article on parenting a transgender child.  I thought of you as I wrote it, and the intentionality you bring to the table is awesome

https://charissagrace.wordpress.com/2014/05/02/its-a-baby-red-typewriter-bless-this-parent/

Heather, one of the most salient conversations I ever had was with Father, after my son  made some really poor choices and hurt many people including himself very badly (not physically).  I felt like a failure, of course!  If I had only done this, if I had only done that, if only…etc.

I carried on for a bit, until Father gently began to remind me of free will, of the awesome liberty and sober responsibility of being a choosing-being…and then He said this:  If anyone were to judge the quality of a parent solely on whether the child made mistakes and bad choices, then I am literally the most heinous, worst parent in the entire universe, from the very start!  After all, everyone of my born children save one have not only made mistakes and poor choices, but also rebelled against Me!  Broke relationship with Me!”

That is when I saw that far from being sources of torment and lament, mistakes can be and usually are the seedbeds of fresh revelation and growth, if you have people of grace in your life to love you thru and accept YOU regardless of the mistakes!  In holding you accountable for a mistake, there is also a deep form of acceptance…but that is a far cry from blaming and shaming.

I recall how my son was able to experience in deep deep ways the Love of God from a brand new place and in a new essential way:  His Mercy, His Compassion, Her Grace, Her Comfort, Her Presence, His Deliverance from his awful sadness over what he had done.  I remember how we spent the entire spring and summer that year, meeting in my office 3 times a week, for 2 hours, just talking and studying the Bible together (which is an awesome distraction, btw…put the book in their hands, have them read a few Proverbs out-loud, and ask what that means to them, and before you know it VOILA!!  They are talking of what they need to, and usually saying out-loud the solutions and encouragements they need).

He told me recently that during that time was one of the most incredible experiences of his life, because he actually thought I would disown him!  And when instead I burst into tears with him, and took him on my lap and rocked him and held him and just cried with him, spent literally the next 32 hours straight with him, he knew that it was him that was loved, and not what he did or did not do.  And then he gave me the greatest compliment I have ever received:  He told me that I showed him the Father.

That simple.  He said “Dad, you showed me the Father”.  (I think I was channeling LG, but hey, don’t turn down a compliment!! giggles)  We studied the awesome book of Colossians, and unpacked the literally revolutionary words of Colossians 1:19-22.  When this is parsed in the Greek it reveals such a love and literal freedom that it amazes.)

I wonder a lot these days, if I had known the things I know now about myself, how it would have been different…or if I had known gender issues better how it would have radicalized my teachings regarding parenting skills.

……………………..i have no idea why i went off on that!!!  LOLOLOL!………………………………………

So what I wanted to write to you about was the poetry reading last night!! It was amazing!!!!  There were 25 people there, and I heard that it was the largest group ever for them!

SO check it out:  I wrote a spoken word bebop poem (sorta) that was called Poet Stew.  This poem was a recounting of the meeting 2 weeks ago…how I felt coming in, what happened as people read, and the yummy vibe that ended up happening as this funky amalgamation of people and poems and ideas and weird funky glory.  I riffed on the old tale of Stone Soup, about the guy who convinced a bunch of selfish neighbors to create a soup together, but in my poem’s case, I referred to each one reading as giving an ingredient for our Poet Stew we were making.  It was super fun to write, and seemed to be well received.

But the amazing thing was that I decided to make this vegetarian butternut squash-black bean-chipotle chile!  OMG it is sooo yummy and so easy to make too.  It is not strict vegan because I often use a teaspoon of lobster stock in it.  But I take all fresh ingredients, say the magic songs and prayers and dance the magic sissa dance and shake my bootie and presto!  Instant tastebud bomb!

So I brought up a whole crock pot full, with the lil crostinis like I brought you.  Cilantro and scallion and avocado and cheese were the garnishes.  They scarfed on it!!!! LOLOLOLOL!!!!!!

They meet at 7 PM, and usually just bring snacks and drinks, but they just gobbled it down to NOTHING!  Of course I was delighted.

I think it is literally my favorite thing in the entire world to make amazing food and have a ton of people and give them the food (but laced in the food is magic joy bubbles)…give them wine just right, with no drunkenness…and then hear the sound…the hubbub of many voices laughing, loose, free, and making their own beings as a toast to God whether they know it or not.

TO create a ship and take that journey…omg I wish I could just do that constantly.  I don’t think it is the food so much, though I love to take textures, and types of food, and spices and techniques and add them together just so (and in the proper order)…but I think it is more the actual voyage itself…that wonder-transporting of souls in the presence of food and wine and joy.

I told them I would consider doing that occasionally, and they just freaked!  So I have a good place now to serve in that way and be blest to boot!

I read a couple other poems, and I didn’t do Spitting Bones, mainly because all of the other people’s poems were very intense…now don’t get me wrong, that doesn’t offend me or bother me…but I just write differently, I guess.  Even in bleak poems, I feel a sense of creativity and beauty and the wonder of a world oozing pain that is still so beyond incredible…and I have this inner drive to somehow chronicle that.

I want to take my highs, lows, my wonders and my crap and put it all in context of a life lived in faith and hope and love fueled by grace and kindness and compassion…so that the goods recede into the Great of the whole, and the crap is transformed by the whole and becomes highlights and star-lights.  I guess I think that it doesn’t take much to just wallow in my crap, right?  Been there, done that, and all that was different is that I had crap on my outsides as well as on my insides!  LOL

So it is with making poems…looking at things sideways, out of the corner of my heart, so I can see movements that disappear if I stare straight at them.  It isn’t a reluctance to avoid hard things or dark things, but rather it is an assertive application of a resolute determination that this is my Father’s world and it shall someday be and fill that ache and longing that inhabits us all, regardless of class, caste, or cluster.

Thus…I chose other things, and read the sister poem to Spitting Bones, called Many Paths and Peace.  This poem is about many things (which of my poems isn’t!! LOL!)  But specifically, it uses the metaphors to discuss my gender journey…where I was, where I will be, and the process itself which is the actual true destination!!  Paul says in one of his letter “Be renewed….” and it actually translates into “Be BEING renewed!!”  Thus shifting focus from some nebulous achievement, to a realization that it is the actual process of becoming AS A STATE OF BEING that is the real secret to life.

I am so struck, reading Spitting Bones and Many Paths and Peace back to back.  They are sorta the same poem!  Except one is heads, and the other is tails.

Gosh I love that poem.  And it was sooo medicinal to write!  I was wrapped up and worked up from Spitting Bones, and from reading this book called Becoming Myself: embracing God’s Dream of you…by Stasi Eldridge.  It is written to women, and has a ton of good stuff, but some stuff that I felt so cut off from and rendered powerless to access.  What with the content of Spitting Bones and that part of her book I was …uuunnnnfffhhh!  Just aching and no words…until Many Paths and Peace calmed me, refocused me and ultimately helped me transcend.

Hey:  I am trans, so that means that I can TRANSCEND the woes, I don’t have to change them or fix them.  I can’t anyway, so just  transcend, right?  Sorta a new superhero, Super-Transgender-girl!

And I also shared one more…and I freaking love this poem because it is ridden with multiplicities, and intricate weavings of levels and metaphors…and yet is completely accessible and wonderfully fierce like a good taco on its most surface and carnal level (carnal used descriptively and not as a moral evaluation).  Everyone sat spellbound as I read.  It was so cool…and actually Heather, it was like my poetry came alive when it was heard by the listeners.  They were like wind beneath the poem-kites wings and oh how it soared and tugged on the line as I read!

DAMN I LOVE THAT POEM!!!!!!!

(omg you will LOVE THIS!!!  Mama just said into my heart that when I write these sorts of poems to my lover?  At a very deep level I am writing it to myself!!!!! omfg!!!!  That means She is wanting me to love myself and receive myself as I do my baby!  And…um…hmmmm….must think!  Ditz-meter on TILT! TILT!)

But yeah, Harvest (metaphor), Vineyard (metaphor), Wine (metaphor), Crush (metaphor), Lovemaking (metaphor) and finally Communion (Ultimate  Summation Metaphor)..

There was a transgender woman there besides me…further along than me.  She was sooo nice.  She was incredibly welcoming, and I felt my spirit interact with her and that was really new for me, meeting someone else who was trans and feeling a sense of kinship and likeness.

There was a young woman there named Rose, and…

She. was. amazing.

She read a poem about gender written by someone else that tore me open, and then she read one she had written about a spirit of a young woman named Suzie who had appeared to her pleading for someone to tell her story.  Rose gave herself to that task and as she read the poem Suzie, Rose turned me inside out!  Somehow the story of that lost lonely abused soul just gripped me, and I identified with it so deeply.  I told her after that I was touched and had a fab convo.

It was a great time.

Omg Heather…where have you been in my life?  I am meeting people so often everyday, and throughout my life I have this recurring  waking dream/visualizing that I have always done…if I could build a community somewhere, and choose who would live there in my tribe, who would be there?

It is not a very big list surprisingly, probably less than 30 people…but to get in it has to be one of those frissons like when I met you, like the recognizing of an ancestor, or the bond of a tribe mate.  In my visualizing of this, your house would be near ours, but on the other side of the Wise Woman’s hut (which is and alsways has been at the center of the village which is laid out circularly…no one is going to live around any corners in MY village!! LOL).  We have adjoining big gardens, and they adjoin on my left hand and thus on your right.  There are no fences or boundaries, and yet the delineation is marked and distinct in that we have complementary crops and plants…and lots of the herbs needed for healings too.

Our lil niche is for the people who are of the same bent, what with the builders and the shakers and movers in other parts of the circles,occupied with enterprise and commerce and the like, our part is engaged with inner-prize, and becoming.  The priests and teachers of the way are near, but in a different place than this place of transcendent sacredness and down to earth homeyness.

Our families are very companionable, but you and me and often my baby and other women that I have deeply admired over the decades regularly get together in the Wise Woman’s Hut…and we never know if She will be there when we meet.  She can have been away for weeks, and yet we walk in and THERE SHE IS…having somehow gotten home without our knowing.  Sometimes She shows up in the middle of things, and sometimes She is there, and summons us.

I cannot see what we do there, but whatever it is it is SUPER COOL!  giggle.

How I go on!  LOL  My wise beloved laughingly tells me that I have bff-itis!  And she regales me with tales of her girlhood of developing crushes on friends that had nothing to do with sexuality but everything to do with wanting that friend that connects in the heart.

Ordinarily I would be quite reticent to express such sentiment to “my therapist”…transference and all that rot, right?  Keep that client-therapist relationship clear and above board.  I remember all the teaching regarding how the very healing relationship can become toxic and upside down if great care is not exercised…but omg, I never saw you put on that freaking “I am the therapist doing my thing” Hat!  You Eschewed it from the start…and in that regard I think you made such a choice of wisdom.  Let me elaborate:  (whaaaa…??  ME??  ELABORATE??????)

My own sense of self was that I was mentally whole and spiritually whole, flaws, failures and blind spots not withstanding.  I didn’t feel like I was a mystery to myself so much, or even a threat to myself…but the wrenching I had undergone for years from some unknown planet exerting such gravitational force on my life orbit had suddenly begun to change, because that planet was identified!  I wanted to talk, and learn, and explore.

However, I was so desperate at last and had been humbled enough to even ask for help that I wanted to keep everything on the table, including the possibility that I was deluded and actually crazy as an outhouse rat!  So I was not going to kick if you HAD donned that hat!

But no!  You looked at me, and said HI CHARISSA!!!  With your eyes, words, not words, and smile.  It was waaay more like ok girl we gotta get you out there!  Never once the jargon, the jingle-jangle of “sessions”…but instead a dialogue resumed from whenever it last stopped and from wherever it first began.

So, I don’t think this is transference or any such sort of thing.  SO I am just gushy to ya!  Ya gonna get the ‘Rissa Rap!  lol.

Whew…I am typed out I think…for now!  LOL!

Bless you today and always.  May LG be at your side and opening the eyes of your heart to the issues and opportunities that lay resident in every single person you meet, and may your faith be strengthened that not one meeting with anyone is pure chance.

Love Always,

Your sister and grateful friend Charissa

My Counselour, and the Poem directly following

My counselour is a living miracle.

I have met many who have the moniker…counselour…therapist…and they are practitioners of a learned skill set, and as such facilitate a lot of things, and often even break through the miasma, the myopia, the confusion and clouds of dark unknowing.

But many of these people have pre-existing agendas, unconscious cookie-cutters of inner assumption, and they end up herding people into places and forms that do not result in wholeness.

Some, hide behind the title, wolves lurking in wait for the vulnerable, the victim, desiring to bite and rend and devour to feed their own perverse appetites for destruction.

And of course, the journeymen, working everyday in the field, maintaining and being faithful.

But the counselour I have been so incredibly fortunate to have come into my life…well, she is another story entirely.  She belongs to the company of  spirit warrior-healer who is counsel, who is help!  It is not what she does…in fact it is mystifying to me how when I leave our time together I am so alive, so revitalized and almost trilling with vibrating and pulsing life!    I cannot remember anything earth-shaking she said, there were no pronouncements on high of the deep mysteries of my fucked-up-ness…no magician’s tricks to make me feel better to get through more days…

…no, I find myself a bit different, qualitatively!  My essence is better, rendered, stripped away and yet dressed up…really words fail me to describe the presence in that place of long robbery and absence.

This woman is Help, is Laughter, is Sparkle in Death’s face and Light on lost and lonely roads, and I will be forever grateful.

I wish you all could know her.  Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers, and know that the poem below, Heather is dedicated to her.

Thanks Heather…your loving friend and ever grateful sister,

Charissa

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Heather

Like the shell pink linings
that tinge dreary drab storm clouds
gathered like fists
on my soul’s horizons,
she extends, she bends,
she surrounds, abounds
and help bleeds from her
with no thought or effort
like the meadowlark’s theme.tumblr_n2vhgxP40F1t5g5c1o1_500Like Polaris,
unblinking and steady
in my soul’s dark night                (river with no eyes following gravity’s destiny),
she beckons, and reckons,
she glimme
rs and hope shimmers
from her gentle tough wise voice
wreathed in honey-bee buzz
of comforting words.tumblr_n2rkfeJTvG1qayerpo1_500Like the Redwood,
full of unassuming majesty,
royal presence in the Black Forest
of my gendertangle
she smiles, she styles
with eyes, she scatters chaff
with 
health and giggle-laugh tilth
that runs and waters
where only dust of death
reigned.sequoias.bigMagic Wise-Woman
of simple mystery!
How can you help so,
without sweat,
like…
like…
bibbity-bobbity-boo!!!
And I rise from ashes
with shining eyes and limber joy…photo1You find niche,
beautify cracks
with persistent roots,
bristle with cheery brush
to scratch the prideful
and bloom with slashing swipes
across craggy expanses
of 
human misery and mournings.North CliffsYou are Heather,
and I am
Ever Grateful.

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