Apologies

I’ve been volunteering at DMCW for 9 months now and when you’re a staff volunteer, you see the same people come through every week. First, you get to know names and faces. Then you learn things like how Stanley takes his coffee and how when Kim asks if you have noodles she means ramen noodles and nothing else. You learn that Jimmy prefers donations of black socks to white ones and that if anyone is mouthing off, Annie will most certainly have your back.

The longer I’m here, the more I learn not just about preferences and personalities, but about what happens on the other side of the street when our doors have closed for the day. I am only privy to seeing the tip of many icebergs, but it’s enough to keep me from living in comfortable ignorance of what lurks beneath the water where I float.

I can fill a plate, clean and bandage cuts, drive someone to detox, or offer my undivided attention and a hug. But all the love and good deeds in the world don’t change the fact that at the end of the day I’m the one sleeping inside when it’s below zero outside. I’m the one who can raid the fridge at night if my stomach is growling. I’m the one who can work. I’m the one with a car to take me to work. I’m the one who goes home to people who aren’t abusive or tweaking. What do I do with the privelege I carry as I attempt to live in solidarity with these nieghbors of mine?

 

There have been several times I’ve asked one of our guests a question, completely unprepared for where the conversation would go. Totally unaware that I just signed up to have my ears violated. I’ve had some real good sob sessions in my car lately as I drive and decompress from all the information I take in. I hate, hate, hate, HATE that most of the time all I can do is say, “I’m so sorry.”

I’m so sorry that your husband beat you until your eyes swelled shut and you could feel your mouth fill with blood.

I’m so sorry that you’ve been shot 9 times and can show me the scars scattered across your abdomen.

I’m so sorry that you’re finding it impossible to stay sober and it’s ruining everything.

I’m so sorry that 3 of your 4 sons died when they were just kids.

I’m so sorry that your fingers are frost bitten.

I’m so sorry that you were forced into prostitution and that you feel trapped and violated.

It feels like there are apologies constantly pumping through my bloodstream. All I know is that I cannot burn out, get cyncical, and angry. I cannot disengage. In this place where I live, contemplation and action are connected. Connecting to Love allows the community to stay engaged working for some semblance of peace and justice when the presence of pain is so thick and tangible. I believe this house is holy ground and these neighbors are immensely loved in the only way we know how: to show up, to see and listen, to stand together, and to know how they take their coffee.

God, I hope it’s felt and that it’s enough.

Love,

Taylor

P.S. I know this is kind of heavy, but I promise most of the time there’s a lot of joy and good vibes all around.

 

 

Waves

Shout out to Kanye West and Rob Bell, who inspired the following content with their individual creative genius. This is for all the people out there who currently find themselves in a season of life where they just can’t catch a break and have no f-ing clue what’s happening. Come. Join me in my little wave mantra.

 

I am getting pounded by waves. Waves never come alone. They come in sets. They pummel you, sending your whole body into a vicious spin cycle. Your muscles get tired. You can’t see what is happening. You can’t fill your lungs with precious gulps of air. You don’t know which way is up or down, left or right.

Waves don’t die. They’re ever present. But in the moment where you’re involuntarily forced underwater, you must remind yourself…

This moment is not all moments. The wave will come. It will pound me. It will pass over me. Then I will come up for air.

When you’re tossing and turning in every direction, you will want to thrash your body against the water. Your heart and mind will want to frantically conjure up all the worst case scenarios: What if I don’t make it? What if this doesn’t work out? What if I don’t have the money? What if I get rejected? What if this person doesn’t come through?

What if questions and worst case scenarios only add pound to the pummel. You are burning up energy that could be used to do the only thing that is helpful in a wave: Stay calm. Take care of yourself. Eat well. Sleep enough. Remind yourself…

THIS IS A WAVE.

This moment is not all moments. The wave will come. It will pound me. It will pass over me. Then I will come up for air.

Love,

Taylor

Skorts + Sno cones

I came across this picture today (thankfully social media didn’t exist when I was in middle school, so pretty much none of that experience was documented like it is for people now) and I just want to be this girl wearing a skort at Adventureland again.

You know…when feeling grown up meant getting to wear mascara and shaving my legs. When being independent was about getting rides from friends instead of my parents. When socializing involved rollerblading to get sno cones and jumping on a trampoline, because no one had cell phones that did anything except maybe let you play Tetris.

You know…before any of the hard parts happen. Before girls get mean, before parents divorce, before you get your heart broken, before stress is a normal part of life, before best friends leave, before guys become assholes, before the debt piles up, before loved ones get sick and die, before the rejections. This girl hadn’t been touched by any of that yet.

I’ve been trying to remember what it was really like to be this girl, but all I can think of is that she could eat a lot of raw cookie dough and Doritos without gaining any weight and was good at Zelda. It’s insane how many days we live and don’t remember. I spent 365 days being 13 years old but I can only vidvidly recall a few moments here and there. Does this mean that 13 years from now I’ll only be able to remember a few moments from what is my now? 

Woah.

Well, I think I’ll keep up these nostalogia vibes by listening to Fall Out Boy’s Take This to Your Grave album.

Love,

Taylor

 

 

Just give me a candy heart.

Her armor is thin.

She knows how this ends: the delicate ones bend.

Oh God, thicken her skin when its arrows they send.

She’s boarding up the door.

She knows how this ends: trusting and expecting unearths the worst.

Oh God, hold the lock and key when no other is of worth.

She’s digging in the dirt.

She knows how this ends: with filthy, empty hands.

Oh God, reap before she sows in what will not grow.

It’s a struggle you know.

To hope in what you cannot see,

Through armor, though thin.

From behind a door boarded in.

Covered in dirt caked like sin.

Oh Love, if you agree,

Let no doubt intervene.

You know who holds the key.

And may you spend your days under each other’s white flags,

Holding dirty hands.

Love,

Taylor

Longing pt. 1

I long to share and break bread.

For rectangular tables with rows of strangers-turned-friends.

To hear the sound of forks scraping on plates and inebriated laughter hovering in the air.

For the day’s worries to dim like the light and for hearts to fill alongside bellies.

I long to love and be led.

For legs intertwined in sheets, a place where sacred and stupid meet.

For steady hands that pull and careful feet that pursue.

To grow, to root, to sink, but to always keep our wings.

I long to be with, not for.

To stand in the right place, not take the right stand.

For the call that elicits response to touch and see.

To share cries, stories, prayers, meals, beds, families.

I long for simplicity, nothing more.

For rhythm and ritual that satisfies and sustains.

For garden sprinklers to run through and a swing on the porch.

For a tiny dwelling that collects memories and not things.

Love,

Taylor

Record

The day was so full of words that carried weight.

That dripped like that candle wax, hot and slow.

That lingered like those billows of incense, permeating and veiling.

Reminders that finite is a description of life. Of time.

Sentences strung together on a broken record we play to remember the infinite.

Round and round, it goes. 

The day was so full of glimpses that stung.

Gazes all too revealing

That what I know and what I do not know are now perhaps equal in measure.

Searching for love

That only I am capable of giving, myself.

Where it stops, no body knows. 

National Poetry Day

My morning pages are kind of sprinkled with poems. Well, I think they’re poems. I won’t claim to know anything about poetry. But I signed up for a membership and a workshop at the Scottish Poetry Library this week. Because why the hell not?!

Today is National Poetry Day in the UK. Therefore, it would only be appropriate to share one. I wrote this on Referendum Day. It was my own personal declaration of ‘Yes’…

Say yes-

To fear.

Say yes-

To lonliness. Table for one. Twin size bed. Tiny quiet spaces. Tired thoughts. Hold your own heart.

Say yes-

To risk. Travel solo. Harness the unfamiliarity. Get lost. Trust your intuition. Open your eyes.

Say yes-

To deep cries. Wash your face in saltwater. Heave out the old. Breathe in the new. Keep your chin up.

Say yes-

To forgiveness. Fail. Let go. Give up. Unclench your fists.

Say yes-

To freedom.

Love,

Taylor

Bits & Pieces

“You’re not,” he said.

“But I used to be,” I protested.

He looked at me intensely and unafraid saying, “Yeah, but you’re not. Not anymore. You’re not.”

I felt my chest tighten. Little waves rising in my eyes.

I stood up and walked out of sight. My chest heaved forward while the little waves began their descent, crashing into my cheekbones.

I have always been told what I am. 

Until this specific moment, no one has ever told me what I am not. What I can’t be.

Not anymore. I’m not.

..

There is a place that I find to be truly sacred.

This is the place I am most alone.

This is where pray. When I remember to pray, it is almost always here.

This is where I think about what is next or what just happened.

This is where I make the call.

This is where I scribble down what I want to remember.

This is where little pieces of my life lay strewn about.

This is where I have had deep conversations with distraught teenagers. And shallow conversations, too.

This is where I have been kissed goodbye.

This is where I sing.

This is where I try to practice silence.

This is where nearly everyone I love has sat next to me.

This is where I pack everything when I move.

This is where I stay to cry, or rant, or sleep when I don’t want to face the world yet.

This is where I roll down the windows and breathe deep.

This place takes me wherever I need to go.

..

One nice thing about enduring something sad is that it opens up the possibility to re-discover happiness.

When you’re sad, everything in you is saying, “Please! For the love of God. Let me find something happy. Anything. I’ll take anything.”

So you do. You seek out joy in every tiny thing.

You find yourself freaking out about how huge the moon is.

You laugh too hard at everyone’s jokes.

You experience genuine euphoria while adding toppings to your frozen yogurt.

You get overly excited about how kick ass your Excel spreadsheet is at work.

You fall in love with something about everyone.

You live for that first cup of coffee in the morning. Just the smell has you beaming.

You could cry about how adorable that baby is.

You become zealous about taking on any sort of project. All of the sudden you might want to learn how to play the ukelele or become an avid kite flyer.

The way the sun is shining or the wind is blowing could ignite sheer bliss in your soul.

When you’re craving happiness, you can find it everywhere.

Isn’t that great?

 

Love,

Taylor

 

 

 

 

Juvie Jamz

It’s time for another Juvie Jam.

Untitled

When I was a boy I was raised in the trap

Never wanted a toy unless it resembled a gat

Me and my little brother was skinny ‘cuz we were barely eatin’

We got our water from a neighbor’s pipe that was leakin’

Mama stayed in her room ‘cuz she was always tweakin’

Daddy was in prison, they didn’t free him

I used to see my Grandma every other weekend

Not anymore because she has trouble breathin’

I think my family just needed help

By the time I was 9 I had to fend for myself

That same year I started bangin’, I found another family

They taught me loyalty and respect

They understand me

They taught me love, they taught me care

They taught me to never snitch and to that I solemnly swear

While other kids had books and backpacks

I had hooks and crack bags

I have no feelings to feel

Just worried about a ceiling and meals

Every night I walk into a cloud of meth smoke

Every night I lay on my bed and ask myself is life and death a joke?

-C

Also. THIS. Those budding artists, let me tell ya…

 

Love,
Taylor

 

Good Girl

I’m sitting on my therapist’s couch, clenching wads of damp, mascara covered kleenax in my fist.

I’m a crier. If you get me alone and talking about anything remotely emotional, the tears just flood in. It’s uncontrollable. I don’t even mean to most of the time. I try not to. It’s something I used to feel like I had to apologize for.

My parents tell me that when I was a little kid all they had to do was give me a look or raise their voice and I would start sobbing in remorse. Apparently their mild signs of disappointment were enough of a punishment for me. And this is still a thing. A while ago someone wrote me a lengthy message all about why and how this particular thing I had done was wrong. It wasn’t even something I had done to this person, but they wanted to make their opinion known and because I felt like they were disappointed in me, it ate at me for weeks. I cried. I wrote replies and deleted them. I was praying to get a sense of whether there was something I needed to feel ashamed of. I felt self-conscious and worried until I came to a point of realizing I had absolutely nothing to apologize for. I was okay with this thing. The other person involved was okay with this thing. The person who wrote me the message was not okay with it, but did they really know everything going on? No. The point being…I tend to base how I’m doing/feeling on how other people are doing/feeling and it’s really annoying.

“So, if you weren’t being the care taker or the good girl, then who would you be?” my therapist asks me.

An impostor, but a less stressed and anxious impostor. No…I don’t know.

I get what she’s doing. She wants me to connect these roles to my own self-worth. And she’s right. Because in my mind, if I’m not sending you a random card in the mail, or bringing you soup when you’re sick, or driving you to the airport at 4:30 AM, or buying you coffee, or volunteering for your event, then you won’t have any reason to like me or desire to do the same for me. And if I’m not always encouraging, forgiving, listening, reachable, peaceful, putting the needs of others before my own, accomplishing my goals, following the rules, making sure everyone understands me and is okay with who I am, etc., then I’m not being a good girl. I feel worthless if I’m not those things. That’s been one of the hardest parts of getting divorced; not feeling “good” anymore. And it’s not like anyone is making me feel that way. I’m doing it to myself. Why? Because for me, it’s always been the wrong/bad choice and all these other choices piled up that led to the “bad” one. It’s the whole thing where the one thing you would never let happen, happens and life becomes painfully ironic. Sigh.

But I can’t just turn these instincts off. I’m probably always going to try too hard to do the right thing. I will feel insanely guilty if you’re ever unhappy with me. I’m always going to worry too much about how other people are doing. And maybe swear words will always sound contrived coming out of my mouth and I’ll never have the ability to smoke or take a shot without looking absolutely ridiculous. But hey, it’s cool guys. I have this sense of obligation to be someone no one needs to worry about, someone who doesn’t ask for much, someone who has it together, someone who is always reliable and conscientious. Someone who lives her life in the lines. Creative, colorful lines, but still organized in a particular fashion.

Maybe a sense of obligation isn’t the right phrase because I’m fairly certain it is ingrained in me. I’m okay with that. I wouldn’t want to be someone else. But I’m working on catching myself before I step too far, you know? There has to be a happy medium between, “Hey! These beautiful qualities make up the fabulous being before you” and,”You’re trying way too hard and becoming increasingly detrimental to your own mental health. Chill, lady.”

So, I’m working on not getting taken advantage of. On not feeling hurt when I give and don’t get what I’d expect in return. On not doing something because I should or shouldn’t but instead because I want or don’t want to. I’m navigating my way through the past, trying to piece together what happened that caused me to arrive at this particular place. And in doing so, I’m processing how to move forward and be more in tune with my own wants and needs. I’m trying to find my voice and not be afraid of it. I’m getting better at bracing other people’s emotions and opinions without making it all about me. Because honestly, (and this is what my therapist is so good at reminding me of) I’m not all that important. And that’s a relief.

Love,

Taylor