On Being Broken

So what if I am broken!
It wasn’t exactly my choice, ya know!
It’s not like the guy came with a warning label
“Warning! The love of this man might be toxic!”
Or something like that
“Up close and personal, this man might hurt.”
I carry the scars, sure.
And I am done with being ashamed of them!

It was not my fault that he hurt me.
I married him, sure.
I chose love; I got pain.
As if life made a mistake.
Except, there’s no return address.
No doing over.
The scars are for life.
They hurt.
They make me scream and shout.
They make me mad.
They make me cry.

It is not my fault that my body learned.
“It is not safe.”
“No man is safe! Run away!”
The only safe way seemed to be to stay away.
From love.
To avoid the pain.
No more, I say!
I take the love
and heal the pain!

I have started practicing trauma-sensitive yoga and stuff is bubbling up, so I can mourn it to accept it. I can highly recommend TSY, just make sure that you have support for healing the things that bubble up.

Life Connections

On Saturday, I attended the Brighter Brains conference on artificial intelligence. Not that I am particularly interested in AI. There really is so much more that we humans need to do – and know! – before I would agree that pursuing artificial intelligence is worth our time and energy. Plus, as Gary Marcus pointed out at the conference, we don’t know enough about the brain to make artificial intelligence feasible – at least in the near term.
Click here to continue reading…

Puddle Metamorphosis

Once upon a time there was a little girl who liked to play in puddles and dance in the rain. She was quirky and exuberantly happy. Until the evil wizard found her. The wizard put a box around her. “You have to be contained!” he thundered, “You are too much to handle!” The girl went into the box happily. She took her toys and used her colored pens to draw on the walls making it a pretty little box. She thought she could leave the box when she wanted to. She couldn’t. The first time she tried, when she wanted to jump into a puddle, she felt the constraint of the box. “Don’t jump into that puddle!” yelled a voice. The girl got scared and hid in the box. After a while, it seemed that she could only be safe in the box. She learned that all sorts of dangers were lurking out there. She got hurt, after all, whenever she tried to leave the box. She didn’t realize that it was the box that hurt her, that kept her contained, restricted. 

Then she grew up. She got shoved even deeper into the box. She was grown up now. Grown ups aren’t supposed to like puddles. She still did – but didn’t dare show that. Until one day when she was wearing her rainboots. She decided to jump into a puddle. It was dark, after all. Who would see her? At first, she was careful. Then she became bolder. A big smile appeared on her face. And then she heard it again. That voice. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” he hollered, “Disgusting!” She stopped in her tracks. Was she going to let this voice of her childhood stop her? Carefully, she moved the box. It was hard. Hard, painful work. Harder than anything she’d ever done before. Slowly, she inched closer. Until the whole box was in the puddle. It soaked up the water and started to fall apart. She kicked it a little more until the walls collapsed. She was out of the box. Finally. It was like coming back to life after a long time in zombieland. She took a deep breath of fresh night air and with all her energy jumped into the puddle. Silence. The voice was gone. She was free at last! 

Too Quiet?

It’s been a bit quiet here on this blog, hasn’t it? There are a couple of reasons for that… First, I am blogging more on my other blog that is more geared toward my business ideas. You can read there suggestions about how we can apply what I am learning in dance to our lives and get some empowerment ideas for living more authentically.

Then, there is a bit of a sense that I’ve already said what there I have to say. Or maybe it’s more that I fear I’d be repeating myself. Maybe I’ll start recycling some older posts, like I did with the Mother’s Day poem, that seem still very relevant. Maybe it would also be interesting to see where my views have changed. If you have any preferences – or requests – please let me know!

Another Mother’s Day

I wrote this poem for Mother’s Day last year. Sadly, things aren’t looking any better this Mother’s Day. Climate disruption is now a reality of our lives – and the atmospheric CO2 level has been hovering over 400 ppm for over a month. And we (including myself!) seem to be stuck at partying on…

My mother is dying.
No, not the woman who gave birth to me.
The mother of all life.
The mother who is making this miracle possible.
She is dying.

And we are killing her.
With our habits.
With our greed.

On this mother’s day
let’s stop the charade
and start the change
for we all claim to love
our mother.

On this mother’s day
let the love flow
to change our lives.
We can save our mother
when we act now
and live a better world.