Archives for June 2018

Where the HEART is

HOME. I’ve been mulling over the whole notion of HOME as I watch my friends return to the rehabilitated homes.

We have lived longer in this apartment than we lived in the Peacock House. This is the place we’ve called “home” for nearly 10 months. This is where we took refuge after Harvey, worked tirelessly on insurance claims and applications for FEMA assistance, sobbed in each other’s arms, laughed til we almost peed our pants, hung our child’s artwork, listened to him read his first book to us, kept “pet” insects, built forts out of boxes, enjoyed the meal train dinners or Trader Joe’s newest microwaveable meal, drank copious amounts of boxed wine, celebrated holidays, watched the snow fall, snuggled while watching countless movies, and so much more.

Home has been a split-level house, built by my grandfather, on Magnetic Street. Home has been a string of dorm rooms and tiny apartments (9, to be exact). Home has been 2 trendy flats in Amsterdam, a company-provided villa in Doha, and a rental house overlooking the Cook Inlet in Anchorage. Home has been 4 different places over 2.5 years in Houston. Home is -and always will be -Bonnie’s Birdhouse on Mehl Lake.

Given our wanderlust, we will likely call many other places “home” in the years to come. So, this apartment is just as much our home as any another place we’ve lived. We’ve done so much living and loving here, which means we’ve really never left our “home.”

(Artistic credit to my sweet boy who covered our walls with his drawings and paintings over the school year.)

Thunder Thighs

Quote from Anne Lamott(Image found on Pinterest, quote by Anne Lamott)

Last night, a poem came to me in a dream. I woke up with the words lingering in my mind, demanding to be written.  I have not written in MONTHS and I have not published on my blog in a year and half, so I’m not exactly sure why this poem came to me now.  Perhaps it’s the stress of the last several months and the toll that it’s taken on my wellbeing.  Perhaps it’s the PTSD associated with the start of hurricane season, this week’s heavy rainstorms, seeing images of the horrific flooding in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, and the DREAD I feel when I think about returning to our flood house.  Perhaps it’s the story of the 12 year old boy who died as a result of being trapped in his basement during the Michigan flooding, or the stories of children being separated from their parents at the borders.  Perhaps it’s my acute awareness of the aging process and my lifelong struggle with body acceptance.  Perhaps it’s the #metoo movement.  Perhaps it’s all of these things, or maybe it’s none of them. Perhaps I am simply a conduit of a message…..

Truthfully, I know that I’m much more than just a conduit.. that my act of sharing my writing is about my own healing through self-expression and vulnerability.  Every time I share such raw emotion, I anticipate the judgment.  I can already hear your voices in my head. I am well aware that even most closest friends deem me “too emotional” or “too sensitive.”  They feel that I should change: I should be tougher, or more detached, or medicated.. or something other than someone who feels too much.  And somedays I wish I weren’t a highly sensitive person, overly attuned to the energies around her.  That I didn’t care so much.  But most often, I cherish this gift that enables me to connect whole-heartedly with the people around me.  This connection is only made possible when I am courageous enough to open up about myself, which is what prompts me to share this latest piece….

As always, be kind and gentle with yourself and each other

xxx C.

Thunder Thighs


If my thighs could talk, they’d tell you

About the injustices they’ve experienced

The harsh judgment

For their non-conformity

For their flabbiness

For the extra space that they occupy

They would tell you about the baby they cushioned on his way into the world

And they would tell you about the grief they carry for the babies who slipped through their gates too soon

They would mention the stirrups

Of being poked, prodded

Of being violated

They would tell you whose hands were loving and whose were not

Of their shame and outrage

They would reminisce fondly about mountain top climbs, deep sea dives, and runs in faraway lands

They would recall being pushed to their limits and how they persevered

Of being stretched and strengthened

And they would whisper about the days when they did not want to get out of bed

When the world was simply too much for their tender folds

They would tell you that their thunder is a force to be reckoned with

The sound of the lighting inside 

Of one woman’s storm