tell it like it is.

It's so late and I'm eyes are totally done being opening. But my voice lusts for a sound. And so I live by my word. Yesterday I wrote about allowing voice to not only listen but be heard.  Middle of the night she wants to speak.  

This is something I had to read, to say out loud.  Instead of taking a video of me in bed, too lazy to remove make-up and 4-year old tossing and turning next to, I just covered up the little camera and read.  I am sure there is a fancier way, but this works. A video of my voice.



Don’t be scared to tell it like it is.  Like when he leaves you in tears, your heart cracked in two but you knew, you knew, the gift was revolutionary and the story was beyond karmic debt and about a healing line between you and him and an unnamed constellations of stars.  You knew, as you stood at the bottom of the driveway alone, the rain pouring down on your already shivering bones.  You knew, as you caught each tear, holding it with care as it dropped into your palm, naming it for all the moments before: too proud to cry, to scared to sob your body down down down, against the cold wet ground.


Don’t be scared to tell it like it is.  Like when you just don’t like it, never did, when you pulled the wool over your own eyes so you didn’t have to see who you’d become and whom you allowed yourself to come home to.  Don’t be scared now to say the hell with all that, drown that back there in the rain, it serves nothing to keep it alive.  There is no time to lie about what you can and cannot not see, there is no time to stay quiet about what is your nourishment and what is your noose.


Don’t be scared to tell it like it is.  You like it like that and you like it both ways and every way is truly the only way you want it and so let it be.  And if it’s too much for anybody to see the selflessness in that, the full-bodied gift to the world, to the children. It’s a service to accept no limitations on what is Enough, because you define your own enough and because you only want enough and sometimes that’s everything that it can be.  Don’t be scared to tell it; don’t be shamed for wanting what you want. How else do we get to know what fills us up, shines us out, burns us bold.


Don’t be scared to tell it like it is.  I mean go ahead and change some things, a song or the color of the sky or what you ate that night.  But tell it straight up if your heart is broken or you find out there is no such thing as love or that love is so bold and true that it aches even deeper, because it is so real, and there is so much to loose. Tell it stripped down to naked flesh, hair on legs, sweet drips of tangerines on the beach on a summer morning when you were sure the first time you saw him was the millionth.  Don’t be scared to admit that you thought time would unravel the kinks and the stares would get deeper, longer, softer.  Don’t forget to say there is nothing like his hand on your lower back and his lips pressed on your temple with warm breath. Because when you write a love story, or a loss story, don’t cover it up and hide its curves with useless clothes



Don’t be scared to tell it like it is.  Your brilliance shouldn’t be hidden. You are fucking gorgeous down to your every last shaken part, breaking apart, loose knit insanity layer. You are gorgeous and true because you let that layer live.  Don’t be quiet about what you know and what you love and how burning hot, like the core of the Earth hot that you are.  Don’t hide behind that tree or underneath that quilt watching what goes beyond that window for too long.  The wind wants to carry your voice over the mountainside and across the sea.  The sea longs to take you wherever you want to be.


Don’t be scared to tell it like it is.  Fuck off. Slow down. Hurry up. You’re perfect. I love you so much when you get mad like that.  I want you to here, now, please because I have to touch your skin.  Sit down.  Hold my hand.  I want you to love me true but don’t love me all the way yet.  I like the mystery.  So what, I’d rather be sure of the mystery than sure of love’s destiny.  Let’s just shut up and seal that magic with a kiss.


Don’t be scared to tell it like it is. There is no way in hell you can take one more second of the past being brought to the future and the future being infused with the past.  What’s so wrong with right now?  Alone. In bed. Huddled with your babies and the window cracked open and the heat turned up just a notch so the autumn night doesn’t bring the chill to your inner flesh.  What’s so wrong with it being dark and the silence is almost a sound, a spirit, a movement.  The silence is almost a song, a soft song about the only truth and sanity that is left.  And after the silence passes.  We can’t be scared to tell it like it is.  Whatever that is.  And even if it’s just this.