Happy

Happiness doesn’t fall out of the sky and hit you on the head.

You have to yank happiness out of the ichor and decide it has no choice but to be yours.

It’s gonna hurt either way.

Choose happiness.

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If Life Was a Street Sweeper

It has been a painful past couple of weeks.

One hit after the other. In all different categories of life.

But I will tell you what. Sometimes pain has a way of cleansing you from the inside out. It’s like a fire that burns away all the cobwebs and dust, cleans the gunk that was stuck in the corners, as the flames flick off the outer shell you didn’t realize you’d developed.

 

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Like the new pink, soft skin that grows after the scab has fallen off.

Clears up your perspective.

Shakes loose old habits or beliefs you didn’t realize you’d clung to.

I was planning on doing some fun research into the Egyptian Scarab beetle or Rafiki from The Lion King for my next post.

Sometimes life sneaks up on you in the form of a street sweeper and knocks you off your feet.

I kinda stood around dazed only to realize I wasn’t standing, I’d landed on my bum on the sidewalk and the leaves had already started falling on top of me like an all natural Fall coffin, before I’d become aware of it.

 

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I feel like, if life was a street sweeper, it would have a crazy huge bumper with some wicked sign on the front, plastered atop a smirking smiley. There would definitely NOT be anyone behind the wheel. But I imagine a sweet smile plastered to the back.

Because aren’t we typically better off once life has knocked us off balance?

I am currently dusting myself off, enjoying the Fall leaves about me (yes, I know it’s not Fall, don’t worry I didn’t hit my head), and just glanced the smiley on the back of the truck before it turned the corner.

I’m fairly certain I’m still in Kansas but don’t quote me on that. I don’t know what street I’m on, because hey, life typically doesn’t tell us where it’s going to drop us. There are no tornadoes, small dogs, or sparkly red shoes, so I think it’s safe to say I’m conscious.

The question always lingers at this point. Where to now?

 

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Something Whispers

 

Filled to Empty

Once Again

Just so you can

Poke holes in me

 

Shaped into something

Beyond

Recognition

 

Soft thumps

Abrade the inside

Of my rib cage

And something odd

Flitters through

My chest

 

It isn’t life but tubing

Left there from

When I hated myself

A little less

 

Electronic beeping

Reminding me

To pretend I am alive

 

I am not.

Not today.

Not inside this skin.

 

Not inside

This mind

That falls down

So easily

 

Sometimes it seems

So silly

That I ever thought

I could be real

 

To walk without oiled joints

Or charged lights

Behind my eyes

From which everything

Was stolen

 

(by me)

(something whispers)

 

I forgot

I was the one

Behind the mask

Wearing the gloves

Leaving no trace

 

I forgot

I was the one

Who let this happen

Who roused from slumber

And did nothing

Who watched from behind

Serpent eyes

And let you die

 

I wonder

If it would hurt less

If I was never human at all

 

Simply a stain on the porcelain

The sand slipping down the time

Shivering down the hourglass

 

I forgot

How to tell the truth

Or which it was

 

I forgot

How to speak

Without a tongue

How to see

Without a spine

 

Can I walk

Knowing the many times

My very breath crawled

 

Why?

Why do we torture ourselves?

How many of us are there

In here?

This one little body

 

Pieces hiding

Shuffling about

Slipping behind curtains

Fixing smeared mascara

Redressing so no one notices

 

Their stories

Are shuttered up

Dust chokes the sunrises

Moonlight can’t hide

The shadows

 

I forgot

How the tip of a fingernail

Could hold so many

Dead skin cells

 

They aren’t all mine

 

(yes they are)

(something whispers)

 

And I deny everything

Black lipstick that doesn’t

Smudge

Or leave

Photos behind

 

And no, I wasn’t

Made by accident

Why does everyone ask?

We all clamber around

Waiting for a story to be

Unfolded

It wasn’t an accident

We remember

I shake my head

We know

Our skin

My skin

We feel

 

It’s like they can see

I’m made from

Different coincidences

Kissing beneath the

Atom bomb

 

Waiting for something

To change

Or someone

To notice

The shadows

Etched into my bones.

 

(can anyone see me?)

(no, I don’t think I can)

(something whispers)

 

By Daphne Shadows

Loss Is A New…. What Word Goes Here?

A collection of thoughts, realizations, and truths for me as I navigate the loss of my Papa from this life.

The first three I published on various social media sites, but after that they’re a first time thought.

He died Thursday 18th at 3:22 am.

 

 

Okay, so…. I’m not good at this. And I’m still stuck in …… I think shock and it hasn’t sunk in.
But Chuck Schultz, my Papa, went home to God Thursday morning at 3:20.
I miss him. I love him. I know he’s happy and safe and feels peace and joy and all the love that there is.
So, yeah. I will just leave this here.
With my awkward and inadequate words to mark with speech the love I have for him, the sorrow over losing him for a time, or the surety that I’ll see him again.
I am ever grateful for the memories.
I love you Papa.

 

I don’t remember my Papa’s laugh. I realized this in a painful panic. In a flurry of grasping memories and desperately trying to hear, just hear the last laugh he laughed in my presence. Instead, I only have tears to offer the silence.

 

 

I’ve never lost anyone before. Not to death. It’s a strange land to live in.

The entire world has changed. Yet it remains the same.

I am confronted with a void where there once was life, tiny memories dropping into the hollow that now presides, trying desperately to breathe life back into the part of my soul where he lived, died, and now is reborn in hope and knowledge that we’ll meet again and begin another journey of colliding souls.

 

I bought him this apron. I’ve only bought two aprons in my life. One for my Papa and one for my best friend.

We loved Snoopy together. And food. Cooking. Recipes. Papa was a chef. A master of cooking. He seemed to be a master of everything.

I wonder if I will see it again. After his funeral. When I must walk into his room and sit with his things and pick through them like a vulture. Oh, what do I want? How horrid. But how beautiful and loving and revitalizing. To bring a piece of him home with me. A physical piece of my Papa to keep with me forever. What will I bring home of him?

 

Wearing my hat.

I miss clicking into my blog posts and seeing that my Papa has commented on them. Because he cares. Because he sees me. Because he’s a sassy character.

And now I feel the void where they were. The incoming comments on my life in his words, from his mind, his heart.

I get excited, wonder what he’ll think.

But there won’t be any comments from Papa.

 

When I was a wee munchkin Papa and I rooted for the Raiders. I knew absolutely nothing about football or why we liked them, but oh man did we love them!

It was our thing.

I wore a Raider’s hat. I now love the color scheme. I still know nothing about football. But I root for the Raiders.

I brought home his Raider’s belt buckle. His Raiders ring. What odd things to keep. They’re little bits of him. Right here. Where I can hold them in my hands while I tear up and learn how to let myself cry.

Papa taught me that. Cry. By dying he made me all aware of how if I didn’t shed tears, pretending, faked it, I was disrespecting our bond. Truth. Love. Those tears mean something. And I’m no longer ashamed to cry anymore for any reason in front of anyone. What a gift he’s given me. Even not being here, he’s teaching me about life.

 

I kept three of his ties. They still smell like him. I never want to wash them. I never want the smell to leave. I wonder if I put them in Ziploc bags if his Papa scent will keep.

 

I remember his laugh. It’s faint now, but growing. A shadow memory, cruelly fading in and out. But I won’t let it go.

It will come back, fully. If not I’ll hunt for it.

He laughed a lot.

 

 

People say, “I’m sorry for your loss”.

I used to say that to people.

I don’t think I will any longer. I’m not upset by it or anything like that. But its a wee bit meaningless at this point when I use it on others. Becuase now I know. Now I’ve felt it. Experienced it. Losing someone I love. Sometimes we don’t need to have anything to say. Just sit with someone, acknowledge the pain, understand that there are no words to fix it or make it better.

 

It’s a jumble of emotions, thoughts, and new understandings.

I am trying to step back and witness how I am moving through this.

Grief isn’t a 5 step process.

 

Have you lost anyone you love?

How did you and how are you dealing? 

How are you changing?

What do you see differently?