VERONICA LEE

"Is this slow enough for you?" hit a soul cord,
touching the vibration of stretching myself
insignificant.

Alone,
in this world of illusions, or of
only me.

"I am God. You are God. We are all our own God,"
she taught me.

As my human-spiritual self was developing
gross awareness, the fear - horror - made
me wonder, "I caused all this? The wars? The suffering?"

It was meant to be empowering, but
it was daunting, guilt-provoking.
Too much power to carry on a young girl's
shoulders.

But I could visualize, manifest, use magic.

And...
isolation.

"You are going to hell," other children
would tell me, as I did not go to church.

Separation from peers, separation from
Christian standards, separation from 
the vibrational norms of density and
forgetfulness.

Oh, how easily we forget!
But what did I remember?
How to survive, I suppose.

Slow, slow, slow the intensity,
forget what they forgot,
pretend not to know,
play out learning.

"Life is about lessons. Whatever we don't learn
in this life, we come back to learn next time,"
she taught.

I was not interested in school - elementary,
earthly or etheric. It felt all so...
bullshit.

Separation from teachers, from knowing...
lessons all day, and spilling into my home life.

I rejected homework. And she didn't force 
me; she believed in natural consequences.
And I cared nothing for a grade.

So, I was deemed "bright, but lazy."

Lazy washed over me with proof.
My mom must have been lazy, too, 
as evidenced by our house.
But she did like to read and learn.
What did I like to learn?

I liked to teach.

The teacher who softens her vibration
so people can hear her, take in her lessons.
Although there is really nothing to learn;
simply remember.

And decades passed.

Permission granted by the mystic who
saw me, recognized my soul, taking me
back to witness the child who needed
to fit in, encouraging me to be as awake
as I came in.

"They're not burning people at the stake anymore,"
she assured me.

But I wonder sometimes...
perhaps after all these years I've bound myself
to the stake of acceptance, righteousness and 
living into my true
vibration.

Sizzle. Sizzle. Pop.
The scent is unmistakable.
Even the dog waits hopefully.
She always does.
She knows a treat will 
     encourage her to sit obediently,
     offer a paw of accordance,
     and gently take - or sometimes
     snap from the air - the piece
     of bacon.

When my daughter asked if
I wanted any, she mentioned 
it in code: B-A-C-O-N.
As if the aroma wouldn't soon
give away our secret.

She cooks in her swimsuit;
t-shirt and shorts covering up the 
intention for our afternoon.

We are going to the R-I-V-E-R.
But, like the treat, our Callie girl
will pick up clues.
     The water sandals,
     the stack of towels - she always
     claims the driest one, eventually
     marking each one with wetness, 
     mud and sand.
     The beach chairs
     and, of course, snack bag.
All of which she feels entitled to.

Today she will tolerate a new
contraption. The twins bought her
a lifevest. She already gave a look
of embarrassment when they exictedly
tried it on her. A floating coat for a water dog - 
a dog whose ancestry saved humans
from water catastrophes. 

But she is a 21st century dog,
     with traveling water bowls of her own
     and rolls of poop bags that fit so
     conveniently into her latest harness.

All this equipment will pile into
     the car around her foam bed
     that lives in the back space.
No, we won't W-A-L-K there;
     we have too much stuff.

Adding a W-A-L-K on the same day
     we go to the R-I-V-E-R
     right after she eats B-A-C-O-N
     would simply be too much excitement
     for one day.

But, I suppose we could even it out 
a bit by giving her a B-A-T-H
when we return.
Though she pretends not to like them,
and will pace and avoid for a good
four minutes in mental preparation,
inevitably she really enjoys the 
     pampering and
     afterglow of shampoo and
     coconut oil to soften her coat.

Her joy is evident when she jumps onto her
     blanket on the couch,
     rolls around to finish drying off,
​     and plays with her T-O-Y. 

Decisions not made...
or aren't they?

The mind chooses like an
arrow slicing through the air
at an intended receptor,
be it a bull's eye, or game.
The skills likely determining
its effectiveness.

So must each decision be as
pointed and direct?
There are too many to track.

I wander through the forest
finding misdelivered arrows.
Arrows of forgotten hopes
and intentions.

But I have not starved thus far.
No, I can easily change course
and hop into my car.
The meats are plenty at my
grocery stores, and I prefer variety,
vegetables and convenience.

But maybe my hunting - my
arrow-shooting - was merely
for entertainment.
Isn't each choice an adventurous
direction in our earthly life?

Some choices, my mind believes,
are crucial. More than crucial -
life dependent.
Am I truly that powerful?

The decisions are too vast to track.
What should I write next?
Is my hand keeping up with the
stream of somewhat-coherent
thoughts and intentions?
And where are they streaming from?
My muse? Divine inspiration?

And when I'm in such flow,
what are my choice points?
Left? Right? Relax? Navigate -
or pretend to navigate - in a
river of possibilities?

So I hesitate at the next line...
my mind foggy from unfinished sleep.

But I made a choice. I urged myself
out of bed. Arms wrinkled from
forceful sheets that begged me to
roll over once in a while.

Exhaustion reigned over all decisions
to fight time and stay wakeful for
the sake of not having a bed time.

I am an adult. No one can tell me
when to go to sleep. It is my choice,
completely.
A tiny corner of my world where I
want to demand my power -
angrily, defiantly away from
structure and should.
Yet no one watches or cares
about such self-navigation -
even my dog rides this one
out with me.
Somehow she trusts in my navigation.

I admire her for that.
The innocence of following her master.

Who is my master?, I wonder.
Is it a choice to take the reigns
more compassionately?
To use gentleness in the pull?

As I pause, I want to find a sweet,
delicate answer... to find something
profound and permanent to bring
peace of mind to my many confusions
on choice, decisions and whether
or not I am good at making them.

Or if not making decisions is kindly
acceptable or even possible.

It's July 3rd.
Three years ago it was three weeks
until your death.
We knew it was coming but when, exactly?

But July 3rd meant fireworks in our town.
A silly tradition that I found both
embarrassing and convenient.
What town celebrates the 3rd of July?
A redneck, backwards one?
One with a struggling budget seeking
low prices on fireworks masters?
Yet, it did make for a prolonged
Independence Day celebration,
sort of like Christmas Eve, I guess.

But this was a different 3rd of July.
This one had you bound to a
hospital bed in our living room.
A breathing machine's mask
strapped to your face.
Its beeps and warnings reminding
us of the fragility of your being.

As night approached some of
your dad-friends offered to come
sit with you - to monitor the machine,
adjust the mask, watch over you
with laughter and conversation.

I demonstrated the intricacies
of the cough machine.
This was slightly more daunting -
had to be done in balance
with the breathing machine.
Two machines to do for you
what was becoming too difficult
for you to do on your own.

Hesitantly, yet needingly, the girls
and I left for the town festivities.

We wandered through crowds
seeking fun... maybe familiar faces...
a chance to be outside the house
and away from all that machinery
and caregiving.

No one knew. People laughed
and shopped at booths and
bought ice cream.
Excitement grew for the
upcoming sky show.

I wavered between trying to
grasp a semblance of joy and
witnessing my inner numbness.
Normalcy would be gone forever.

With very few dining choices,
we happily landed in the line of
Cafe Luna - a place, like you,
that is now gone.
And we sat on the curb and ate.
Filling our bellies with real food,
something you could no longer enjoy.

So there it was - that night - with
you at home being tended to while
the girls and I embarked on
strained celebration.
​
And here it is - this day - three
years later with you now gone and
the girls and I contemplating
whether or not to go watch
fireworks on the 3rd of July.