Smudge

I’ve mentioned that I’m unable to concentrate. I can’t read. I looked forward to literature as an escape, and grieved that I couldn’t have it when I needed it most. I mentioned this to my best friend, who responded that during her most traumatic life experience, the attack on her daughter by the teenager’s boyfriend, she lost the ability to read, as well, and that her mother in-law, who’s currently helping her husband through the final phases of inoperable cancer, can’t sit with a book, either.

My best friend gave me the password to her Netflix account and I’ve been numbing on mindless marathons of movies and series. My favorite has been “Long Island Medium.” While watching Theresa Caputo’s children mock her, yet again, for smudging the house (after seasons of this), it finally came to my mind, Darling Daughter, smudge your home.

I had reverted to invented conversations with people who’ve wronged me. My biological father, for some reason, came back to a place of importance as the first person to tell me I was unworthy. I wanted to tell him, in death, “What difference does it make that you’re gone? You were never here.” (He’s alive.) Spirit told me, Smudge your home.

I have this years-old stick of white sage that I bound when it was fresh, still damp. It came from Dreaming Lizard Ranch, where many times I’ve celebrated with people I love, people with whom I Am Worthy because they are. We bound the sage during a rainstorm at a festival. It was a time of laughter, music, and prayer. It came from family.

I’d saged a time or 2, but stored it in a box and forgot about it. Today, I smudged my ghetto apartment for the first time. Subsequently, I had the best day at work, the best since The Idahoan dumped me 2 weeks ago by unfriending me on Facebook. (He teaches middle schoolers. Acts like them, too, it seems.)

(Keep in mind that on the first date he asked me if I wanted kids. “Yes.” On the second date, he asked me to be his girl and would my stuff “fit in here?” On the third date, when my friend asked, he intimated that I’d be moving in at the end of my lease in December, and on the sixth DAY he told me he loved me. And I went to bed with him. So, yeah, I acted like a kid, too. I remember why I withhold my benefits package for 2 months or more, not because I’m a tease but because I’m not an idiot. Well, not always.)

Of course I’m glad to know, but rejection hurts. And refusing closure or even the dignity of an explanation is cowardice that feels like worthlessness. Mine.

I had another good day today. I feel better. I thank God and Angels and Spirit and Source for whatever connection I feel that gets me to where I need to be. I am comforted. And whadya know? I found a book at work that got me reading again.

wild child

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