the heavy hearted ache

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Today I write with a heavy heart, as the internet has reminded me (right on schedule) that the world is really fucked up – and in a plethora of ways.

Our world, our us, our humanity. What does that word even mean? Humanity.

I have grounded myself into a place where I will not let the narcissistic self loathing of our times consume me, I will not let it convince me I am so tiny that I cannot make a difference; that I should just simmer in apathetic and easy complacency.
More and more I am coming to realize that what is “easy” is not simple, and what is simple is far from easy.

But it hurts so much, and somedays I yearn to feel that apathy, I crave to understand the languish places of which so many of us have landed. The state of being that allows people to live each day in a place where heartache has been abandoned.
Because damn this pang is raw, like a thousand indignant marchers grabbing my at throat, despite the lack of recollection of why they had began marching to begin with. Like the tainted oxygen surrounding us leaving my breath short, my own womb mirrors that of our Earth’s – rumbling, twisting and lurching with sediment.
The pang is raw with consumption; a woman trespassed and sold, a pig tagged and bled, water bottled and resold. As if the culprit could see any difference between the three.
Eat. eat. eat.

We live in a time where eye contact is shunned, connection to our adversaries, our lovers, our food. Shunned. The intimate courtship of love, sex and death – a fading art. A sin even.
For years we arrive and depart from inside each other, thrusting in and out. Flesh against flesh, in a desperate reach towards feeling anything at all. Uncontemplative copulation, contact without contact. Climax without Orgasm.

I see anguish, hatred, war, and poison. I see suffering, in a world that advocates killing but refuses to acknowledge that death exists as anything but an affliction. I see all that is natural, all that is us, being crucified and resurrected, wrapped in plastic and artificially manufactured by emaciated milky eyed children younger than my own.
And then sold back to us; lacquered, sterilized. For our safety.

That blasted blanket statement of a word, Safety. I do not feel safe in this world, and I would be brazen in assuming that neither do you. Yet I harbour such a huge fucking adoration for this little blue marble, despite that ever-present same ache threatens to consume me. When I saturated in it’s darkness I cannot help but imagine and skirt on understanding the actions of political self immolation – because this fire under my skin threatens to ignite. The fire of passion, what a fearsome tool to behold.
I am angry, and I am scared, I am in pain but more so than anything I still am so damn in that love. With you, with all of this, or rather what all of this could be; and if I could I would turn it off, but that didn’t work before and it certainly wouldn’t work now. A tidal rush of intensity breaking down the makeshift dam of indifference. Wild hearts do not take well to being confined.

So I cannot go on, yet I continue on because anything else would be a lie – tiresome and meager. I am broke but not broken, I am female bodied but not weak, I am invisible in the eyes of the government but prominent in the eyes of my peers, and this pushes me to go on, even though by all means of logic I cannot.
Logic, safety, ache. These are all subjective. And every day for the past week the eagles have been circling my house, a bat sputtered around my home in graceful disarray, and a finch died quietly in my hands. I watched my daughter sing joyfully on stage, my house later this evening will be filled with the laughter of like-minded loved ones – loved ones that also ache, that also cannot go on – but will anyhow.
As long as I can live in a world with eagles, bats, singing and like-minded hearts I will have love.
This is not the nonchalant white picket fence do nothing as the world burns type of love, nor is it the violent extremist rubber bullets and homemade bombs type of love. It’s a love that doesn’t exist in-between them, but in-fact beyond them, not despite them but because of them.

In response to the times we are in, something beautiful and furious has arisen. Something in you and I that may stand to redefine revolution as a whole.
So I have love, and it tends to the colossal loneliness, the crippling doubt, and the fear of that lingering encompassing ache.
This love whispers to me

“You ache? Good, you are fortunate for the reminder of the state of things. That that ache and make it your power, take that power and make it your gift”
-but damn, some days; somedays are harder than others.

So what is Humanity? Some would say adolescent, destructive, tantrum prone, regressive by force. Call me radical, foolish or idealistic but instead I -in the spirit of my “Post-Jadedness”- choose to ask “what it could be?’ and to see what it IS in smaller circles – That is what utterly enchants me and keeps me going on and on and on.
It is the beauty. That of which we are collectively and individually capable of – And to be in service to beauty’s progress is a damn fine place to be; ache and all.

-ac/mh

art credit: http://jojoesart.deviantart.com/art/Listen-to-your-Heart-578385317

Ponderings from the essential shadow

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I’ve been exploring through my thoughts on the experiences and pain that many of us share – yet seem to continue thinking are completely individual to each other.
I’ve been sifting through on my own ordeals of doing that exact same thing – my previous refusal to release the sovereignty of trauma. As if it was the only that actually made me special.
So if not the individual, where does it come from?

The disregard and nonchalance that our society bequeaths upon those openly experiencing loneliness, depression and acts of self-harm is abhorrent.
It’s so much more than a cry for help or attention – it’s a deep festering cultural wound that touches us all. Perhaps thats why we are so reluctant to talk about it without smothering it with medicinal bandaids and pillow talk of “Shhh it’ll all be okay”. It’s a shameful trigger that something has befallen upon us so vehemently that it has come to this level of extremity.

After copious years of it’s prominence this has become learned behaviour. Passed down through generations. It’s very much developed in to genetic and environmental trauma.
This is far too big to be swept under the rug of demanded and addictive positive thought.
It’s not a coincidence that in a world devoid of elders, initiation and community guidance 1 in 12 of youth teeter towards suicidal thoughts and acts of self harm…. of which generally starts around puberty.

Myself included. For over 10+ years, starting at age 12 – and still only the brave and some (not me) would call crass ask me where all my scars came from. And thats just the ones on the outside.
Yet when the people who suffer speak up they are instantly met with dehumanization, condescending coddling and made to feel like an infectious pariah. The majority at large do not want to be reminded of their shadow, their perceived failures and even more so want nothing to do with that which reminds them of their mortality; especially death.
I made it out of the deepest depths, mostly. Many others did not and will not. Something has to change – like now. You know it, I know it – and it’s doable; but not in conjunction with the continuous ignorant acts of peremptory blind-sightedness.

We are all here together floating in space, hurting, loving, feeling, longing and creating – If we want to heal ourselves individually it’s time we start to comprehend what it means to truly heal as a collective first. To support each other, regardless of the fearfulness that surrounds us, regardless of the mirrors that it provides. We need to heal this together.

(and as a life long advocate of extreme independence that’s a damn hard thing for me to say – IE “I was wrong, this can not be done alone”)

Ponderings from the essential shadows of Humanity

To be continued….

The Ache

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Why have we strayed so far away from our roots to find some facsimile of so called “home”?

I have inklings of memory: memory of lost love, and dust; memory of battles and words I don’t understand but still feel. I remember, I’ve always remembered.

Modern blood lines; and blurred borders; unsavoury connections, and disheartening observations. All connected to surface level descendants – my own disdain for living lineages; an eschew of comfortably strayed spiritually stunted children. Rejecting the idea of tribal law, generations of memory traded for stucco siding and a manicured flower garden. Handicap by choice, because a life of feigned ignorance is an easy life.

I abhor not the people but the aspects of society that twisted the warrior within myself towards such disapprobation. How could I be a guardian to anyone with such contempt for the present?
Those who have hurt she who moulded me, she who gave me life, she of whom I want always to protect. I -within the constrains of my audacious hero syndrome- hold such an deep and unexpressed anger towards them. But I have come to understand that it is she that has hurt herself more than anyone else – for that’s all she was ever taught.
– these broken ones have unpurposefully bruised and tarnished my bond to what once was (old lang syne). Hands in the air, Nose up, and lip curled I refused their fear of living.

Although- sometimes, I do this with far too much adolescent attitude. This upheaval has to end.
I am connected to all, and I enjoy educating myself in worldly theology, fable and history; understanding its correlation to lands far from each-other’s conscious reach. Finding comfort in our shared stories.
But why stray so far? Why purposefully embrace so much, but only taste the scent of where my parentage was birthed? The foundation of my ambiguous DNA.
My loyalty lays not within my given family, but with the one I found; my alliance is with the lushness of the world; and pride lays deep in my blood.
So far back in to where I see in my dreams; the myth and narrative that the ancestors hum in to my ear, trickling down my fingers, tickling and intoxicating my tongue.

“LISTEN” they say, “LOOK” they plead.

I am neither here, nor there. Too far ahead and too far back; blessed now with tangible anchors, to the world I adore. My rebellion suddenly with a cause. My feet suddenly more grounded than ever. How terrifying.

We are all indigenous to somewhere, they whisper to me. But where? and why doesn’t it seem matter like it should on the surface to everyone else – could they truly believe themselves to be a cause so lost that it isn’t worth an excavation?

Don’t you feel the pang from those and that of which has been left behind, the ache of hunger in your chest for something more? The longing for something real, something that tells us we belong.

I feel it.

The whorl of actuality

the_mind__s_child_by_jbsc-d31jzu1Penetrating concepts
&
permeating words
“maladjustment” they said
But – I know better; these compulsions
are the most fabulous of accessory
voracious evening musings

Life,
This is what you do to me.

These basal fleshcrafts soar too slow
for us radical dreamers
instead
we ride hard and swift on the back of thought
into the nethermost depths
of story: our interwreathen universes

An abstract hypothesis? Indeed. Well worth a few lifetimes to fully perceive
All for the Adventure, it wouldn’t be worth a damn without it.

The Fear Laden Woman

You think I am a Courageous person?

A strong Woman in the spotlight, spearheading change with the help of my community. A Love Revolution that invites, music, art, innovative expression, political movement, acceptance, authentic honesty and potent sensual freedom

– yes that is true – but that does not mean I don’t feel fear.

Every day I am swimming in anxiety, some of it my own; some of it goes much deeper.

Things that scare me as Mya:

The sound of Vacuums and blenders, YellowStone Park (or the idea of any super volcano), Seeming Egotistical when I am just Curious/Expressive, being Selfish or Burdensome, Cancer, failing/letting people down, My daughter being hurt in any fashion, Deep sea creatures/sharks, Big loud trucks, Air pollution, Alien adduction, Not being able to save the world, Lack of Community, being exiled/abandoned, my Mom being sad, Losing my ear for Music, Ticks, not having enough of me to give to everyone I love, apathy, burning out, Eels, hurting the people I love, Being discredited for my work now because I once worked in the sex trade (dancer/muse), getting attached, not nurturing my passions, Writers block, staying in one place for too long, Mama earth dying, Raw Chicken,

 

(Purposefully separating here) Things that scare me as a Woman:

Being Crazy After all, Hedges at night time, Playgrounds at Night time, People who may or may not be following me, Cars at nighttime, Smiling or making eye contact with/at the wrong person, Not smiling at the wrong person, Being too big, being too small, HVP, leaving a drink unattended/or accepting a drink, “asking for it”, The front seat of a Cab, Talking back to Cat Callers (although I do anyway), pregnancy, stretch marks, aging, answering the door, Being too weak to protect myself from abuse, the voices in my head that tell me “it’s your fault”, being labeled a bitch because I am quiet, in charge, getting shit done, powerful (or just in a bad mood), being labeled a slut/whore/maneater because I am an outwardly sensual being and non monogamous (and I’ll be honest way less promiscuous then when I attempted -and failed- monogamy), boundaries, or saying “no”, overstepping other peoples boundaries of consent, expressing anger, emotions, Not being taken seriously (“what a radical feminist”), Not being heard because I talk in poetry, Being thought to hate men or women, being a lesser human being

Doing ANYTHING alone.

‘Imagine a World where Women feel safe” – Marco Cochrane

 

This is my vulnerability, my gift to you – to those that may think I do not fear for my own life in some way or another each day. I do – but I choose to walk in to the fire regardless; not with hatred in my heart, but with love. This isn’t even an option for me anymore; it’s what I am made of.

“Wild moon woman

you were not

made to be tame.

You are an earthquake

shaking loose

everything that

is not soul.”

-Elyse Morgan

Imagine how potent and balanced a world could be where Men and Women and all that falls in-between those lines could love, nurture, support themselves and each other? In whatever way the natural flow allowed. Imagine a world were safe spaces were created and expanded until there was no segregation anymore between unsafe and safe.

Imagine standing back and watching the Divine in each of us each shine without feeling envy – but instead feeling pride, a universal compersion. Imagine that we each had a place of meaning and worth in the world – that we could stop questioning our being and halt the struggle of rising to the top.  Because we all could hold a sacred purpose. Imagine a world without fear of insignificance.

In a world free from shame, guilt and fear: imagine what we could all create collectively?

This is my purpose in life, if even it’s just one tiny seed – if even I never get to fully see the fruits of our labour. This is my promise, this keeps me going no matter how fearful things become.

Yours, applecat 

The Queen of Fire impeached

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Digging deep and with inquisitive humility.

Anger in the Feminine, in Women, in me; fist up, voice loud, at par with the boys; no need to be saved, fire burning – far too hot to ever get close, too hot to hurt – smouldering we incinerate ourselves. Why? This Fire was once our ally.
Why?

Because we are tapped in directly at the heart in to our worlds wonder, it’s love and it’s anguish – and we are sorrowful for this.
-But we have been betrayed by our culture, taught that sadness or expression of grief – which is in part our gift to the world; tears for those who cannot, or do not know how- this we are taught is weakness; that our tears are equal to defect – a burden on those closest to us; a truth unwelcomed.
Asudden we become what we fear – told we are hysteric and labeled with the bane of every Woman

“She is Crazy”

So we denounce our gift. The Divine Queen of Fire impeached.

We become angry; it inhabits the place of our empathy. We become angry because being angry is the only way we can feel strong and sad at the same time. We cope by abandoning part of what makes us Human.

and we burn – so hot; we ignite ourselves, our love, our world; this anger becomes a great destroyer – Assassinating kinship, eradicating balance.
There very well may be nothing more destructive out there; as the cautionary tale goes Hell Hath no fury like a Woman scorned.

With respect – I for one, am exhausted. This fire takes blood I am tired of being The Nuclear Woman. I am tired of living in self exile, tired of validating my own crimes of desertion.

Being a Woman in service to life needs no Authorization; and so I walk on again – perhaps for the very first time.

Art Credit: http://fav.me/d945k16

Contemplating New Years Resolutions;

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First one that comes to mind; during the aftermath of global strife and mass spread fear and shame – I let this utterly encompass me, it surrounds my every thought.
My resolution becomes clear as day; the exact thing that holds me back – stop beating yourself up for not being the change quick enough, stop beating yourself up for not being able to help everyone; stop looking at your achievements as “Good, but not good enough”

Tough self love is a necessary skill, but over time and with excessive use at some point it becomes an abusive relationship. I note with humility over this contemplation that I often boarder-line that type of contumelious connection with myself.

Why should anyone accept behaviour from one’s self towards themselves that they wouldn’t accept from other people?
When Catastrophe inflicts it’s detonation on the world I am far too quick to take it in to my body – nauseous and aching to feel in full it’s harrowing grief – and I am often foolish enough to try and feel it out alone; almost as if I was paying penance. Along with callously pushing away whatever person is altruistic enough to offer me solace. Why? Because I have convinced myself I am not worth it.

In these instances I am filled with a disheartened “What’s the point” mentality, one of which eats away at my inspiration and I am not accustomed to digesting with skillfulness. I see little lives change at some of the work that I do; they express with humbling adoration the effect I have had, but the work never gets easier – in fact it gets further strenuous: a dream that so much relies on – still homeless, still surrounded with such uncertainty.
And what of the rest of the world?

How do the little lives go on to prevent bombings, shootings, hatred – how do the little lives -now less laden with shame and guilt- these little dancers how do they stop the killing? How is it that I can put my full everything in to the world – and still have the cries of anguish echo in my ears from miles away, years away – I still feel them, and it hurts. God damn it hurts.

and then I become angry, and sorrowful, and I take it out on myself because it
“Wasn’t Enough”

But I need to stop that, if even for the sake of those who care for me, they should not have to watch me squirm when I perform emotional self flagellation. It’s not fair to them, or to me.
I need to remember that yes on the inside I am a fierce kind DragonKitty, but on the outside no matter how big or small I feel internally- I am a wee Human Girl, and I am doing everything I can; which is (I can say now because I am not at this moment swimming in narcissistic self loathing) a-fucking-lot.

The hell with Gregorian New Years; my resolution can start today.
Mya, take it easy on yourself.

Alexander-Milov-Burning-Man

Most of us in the inner workings of the scene know there are some festivals and events that are child friendly and some that are not. Any Burner Parent knows the scorching blaze of judgement -hotter than any day on the playa- that comes when someone out of the know hears you are contemplating taking your child to Burning Man – OR even have a child and perpetuate that “lifestyle”.

“Oh we’ve heard of what goes on THERE” They scoff, absolutely unaware of the magic waiting there for anyone, of any age.

Deeper in to the knowing most of us Burners are well aware that Burning Man it’s self is not your typical music festival – in fact most would push to say it’s not a festival at all; but an artistic exhibit personified in a small transient city – a tangible archetype of what could be.
For Adults, elders and Children alike.

I have traveled for a handful of years across the white streets of the playa and I have imagined those roads from many different eyes; there truly is something for everyone.

In the summer of 2012 I ventured to ” Kidsville” – a large camp catering for Children & Families at Burning Man – out of my own curiosity and inquiry. After having been at BM for a couple years at that point my daughter started asking to attend with me.

“Is Burning Man for Kids?” I thought

Sure one could find it easy to discredit a place apparently soaking with debauchery as a strictly adult playground; but per-capita is it really so much different than a city? I have never felt safer or more at home than I do on the Playa, I would wager to so many children feel the same.
So many have found solace and release in expressing their childlike self at BM so why not have us all be able to express that together? Learn to love the Childlike self from the masters of being silly themselves!

I wandered in to Kidsville and saw a plethora of giddy delights, a lavish peanut butter & jelly station, tiny geodesic domes, puppet shows and more than anything I saw absolutely elated children – I saw families working together cultivating community outside of the stagnant and tired story of the Nuclear home.

I prodded them with playful inquiry, I spoke to parents, children, extended family and a few imaginary friends/stuffed animals.
What I heard was a collective exhale, expressions of joy, tired but grateful parents – relieved they could gather in a place where they could be Humans together with their Kids.

Imagine a world where Children don’t grow up on a pedestal feeling like a burden later as teens; but rather are treated as members of a thriving community: a tribe even.

I don’t have to imagine it because I have seen it.

So BM & the Temple saved my life, anyone who knows me knows that.

It restored a sense of worthiness and purpose to which I lost – perhaps before I even inhabited this body – It returned me to myself, my artistry and my love.
Part of this restoration was learning to understand that my Child self, my sensual self and my sage self were not adversaries – and it was when I learned to weave them together as Kin that I truly felt joy and self acceptance for the first time.

That being said as a whole Burning Man did not create anything that wasn’t already there but nourished and united the child the elder and the guardian creature inside of me. It merely calmed the ire of their war-grounds and planted seeds for me to sow.

Gods know what a world we could have if our children could be taught such embark from Childhood to Adulthood.

I wonder.

Death and Love

swinging_the_skeleton_by_lucasrsilva-d80bc2s

Thoughts on Death and Love – and how they are not, nor should they ever be mutually exclusive. To truly love something or one deeply, is to love it’s end as well – in whatever form that takes.

Unfurling memories of friends, of kin – those passed on but far from gone. These instances by logic should get easier, but out of respect and authentic heart connection I am unsure if that is the case.

This past weekend Beloved fellow Scholar of the Orphan Wisdom school and friend of mine passed away; Anne Cressy of whom made me feel more at home in a strange place than I ever got to express to her; a respect and acceptance for an older Woman I have -unfortunately for me- not often felt. Along with her on the day previous my dearest Partner Ian and his brave and honourable family laid to rest their esteemed Grandfather Ian Mackenzie I. Guided by song, story and love -the way one should be- he slipped away in the home he had built – along with the clan he and his wife Agatha had cultivated first from across the Atlantic, and back to Canada again.

Death is the dance partner of whom has cradled and cavorted with us since our birth, the shadow of which is there even in our most alone times – the friend of whom will never abandon us despite our outright fear laden disdain for them. Such is their roll.

I want to believe that when those whom are closest to me – and even me – promenade comes to a halt I will be ready; that I will call forward my knowledge of ancestors and the unseen, that I will hold a space for them at the table of my days – and that I too will be seated at said table on the time of my departure. That I will live on in story; the stories of which I have become so fond of in my time – the stories I have come to realize we are compiled of. Stories are what make us Alive, even in Death.

But – I am scared, and a little angry.

These are so called natural feelings but how much if this natural affliction is instilled by our death phobic culture? How much poverty have we been subject to without even knowing it? There is a Rebel that rumbles inside of me and She teeters often on the fence of saving the world or abandoning its ridiculous ways all together – but I couldn’t do that, I love it far too much; no matter how much it hurts I have to keep dancing.

I have had a handful Friends and Family pass away in the past, and I have responded apathetically and passed by the chance to fully grieve them.
This is my shame, a regret that is laced with the wretched certainty of “too late”.
With them in mind and heart I vow to those of whom that are still tangible – still within my flesh’s reach- and to those of whom that are no longer able to feel the warmth my body conjures; that I will never quell that human instinct to mourn your loss out of cowardice surrounding the stigma of being “weak”, or being overtly obtrusive with my tears and what they are tied to.

Is is our birth right to be gifted the grief we’ve earned through out our time together – once passed these cries of heartache are the wind that pushes our sails to the next venture, and the breadcrumbs that bring us back to those we hold deeply in our hearts. This is our obligation and noble place as the living, to feed and guide our dead as they have fed will continue to guide us – as they wait readily -reminded of who we are by our remembering – to take our hand in to theirs whenever it is our time to join them.

Sometimes it seems too far brief of a time, or sometimes our bodies are suspended in space by machines keeping us here on borrowed time far longer than we should be. Never the less we all get what everyone else gets.
We all get a lifetime.

Love without Fear

Whatever your lifestyle, whatever your gender or race, whomever you pray to, however you choose to express yourself: we are all in this together. And we are all being damaged by the same outdated narrative in love.

By publicly acknowledging our generations of woundedness we are not admitting defeat or weakness, we are not pointing fingers or laying blame – in fact it’s quite the opposite.
By choosing to speak we are breaking the spell of continued social projection. We are creating a space to house an understanding that each of us is not alone, that this empathic field of consciousness beyond blue screens is not in our heads. By being authentic and vulnerable we are strengthening the awareness of deep relating.

While we’ve been on the front-lines of shattering our own existence; we know it is wrong, but we carry on in fear that no other story awaits us. We fear the destitute poverty we cling to -the bones we chew ragged- are all that there is.
We have near forgotten how to act together – how to take a leap into the glorious unknown.

This is in our Psyche, bound as she is with her beloved Eros – it is suppressed but NOT lost.
We wrote the stories and myths to serve as breadcrumbs, a way to remind ourselves how to recall the road to home.
There is a blind leap to somewhere new, but strangely familiar. Somewhere past the darkness.

Fortunately -along with the flesh and sinew- love is all that we are, and it can be our greatest gift; if wielded skillfully and without fear.
Loving: a skill that should be taught.
We are living in a time where apprenticing ourselves to the scholarship of love is a vital step to support a sustainable future of humanity.

Through this, as a collective I believe we can heal our world.

Easier said than done? Of course it is.
What that has ever been worth a damn hasn’t been fated to struggle?
When was the last time you achieved any sort of epiphany with ease; an “Aha!” moment that formed you on a fundamental basis that didn’t bring you to your ragged knees?

We are not inherently cowards as Human beings, that tiresome shit is learned behavior via a polluted culture and a broken environment. At our core we are Warriors of Love. Fearless if we learn to be as such.

Okay.
It’s time, lets go.