poem

, , , 0

Science

Be open to the fact that you do not have all of the information.
Our bodies are extremely complex. Not machines but rather living mirrors of a larger cosmos.
We are energy intertwined with other energy.
Systems within systems.
Science proves this. Science has shown time and time again how the rivers carry the blood of our mother and how the wetlands are her lymphatic system.
Science has shown the torus pattern as being a fundamental pattern of creation, existence and evolution.
Be open to the fact that you do not have all of the information.
Science itself is evolving.
If all of the information was known now, we wouldn’t need science: science as a process of discovery and coming to understand our world.
We don’t have gears and oil but rather patterns within patterns. Order. An organization that extends far beyond the current reach of science.
Science as a method.
Science as a mindset.
We have fractal DNA that is able to express genes based on our environmental factors.
We have energy in flesh and in sound and in light. All within our environment.
We have emotion and thought all within our environment.
We have memory all within our DNA.
We have so much information within our DNA.
We have more information within our DNA than we have scientific studies ever conducted within the history of humanity. We have more information within our DNA than we have points of data ever collected.
We have reason to believe that we may not have all of the information available to us, at present, through the process of science.
Science which crawls compared to the speed that our needs progress.
Science which is always playing “catch up” to the miracle of our empirical discovery.
Science which lags behind our questions.
We have so much more than science.
Be open to the fact that you do not have all of the information.
And be open to the fact, that on some level, you do.
“Is it safe?” They ask. About this and that but particularly that one thing (you know the one I mean).
And then the ones stand up who say, “There’s science.”
And the ones stand up who say, “I’ve put it in my environment and I am still alive.”
Tell me, does the one who has the science sense the subtle energy?
Does the one who put it in their environment know what it feels like to edit the code?
Or are they looking for the big things? The things no one could miss.
If we were all aware of the subtle energies we would thank science instead of praying to it.
The new age atheism of a people is the disease of science.
A disease we can see, we can hear it and feel it and know it as we watch our mother’s veins drain and her lymphatic tissue dry up.
Food that has had the life processed out of it, “I put it in my environment and I am still alive.”
Water that has been polluted, molecules malformed, “I put it in my environment and I am still alive.”
Oil that has been ripped from the belly of our mother, “I put it in my environment and I am still alive.”
Micro-plastics, “I put it in my environment and I am still alive.”
Thoughts that devour our passion and reduce us to the belief that we are mearly gears and oil, “I put it in my environment and I am still alive.”
Is it safe?
No. It is not safe.
But there is science. Yes. There is.
Someday, the science will meet the moment you’re presently in and you won’t be here to stand on it.
For now, be careful who or what you pray to, especially if you claim not to.
And be open to the fact that you do not have all of the information.

, , 0

The Yellow Door

I love myself.
It’s hard to believe that was once so hard to say.
It didn’t feel like a truth then. Just an affirmation.
Something light, weightless, floating.
An outline of a possibility.
Now, it’s as true as my own hand before my face.
It holds both water and weight.
It feels like a strong, solid voice that resonates in my belly.
I love myself.
It doesn’t feel like a trick or a sin to say. It doesn’t feel like a lie or a dirty mirror.
I love myself.
And I am sincerely amazed that some collection of terrible and beautiful days has become this declaration of me that I prayed through tears for. For so long.
Isn’t it a gift that we’re never lost?
Always within reach if we just pull back the layers and find our sweet selves waiting.
My inner child loves frolicking. I don’t walk. I jump and spin and fall and laugh and get up again and pick flowers with my toes.
I’m ready for anything.
Holding more light than a year ago like the voice told me I would.
I do hear voices but they’re not the kind to worry about.
Although some take their worry and stretch it out for me like a courtesy or a hobbie, it’s not necessary.
My voices speak sweetness.
They remind me to look deeper.
They say, “what if it is true? What if it isn’t? Does your past really change you?”
And I wonder, can it? Something done? Can it change who I am to become?
No, I think my identity has crumbled a thousand times and no memory can keep me captive anymore.
I might just open the yellow door.

, , , , , , , 0

My Daughter Needs

My daughter needs a hike in the woods more than she needs a “morning meeting”. 

She needs to learn that time moves in a spiral more than she needs to memorize a calendar.

She needs to learn each letter as we write together “EVERYTHING IS ENERGY” carefully tracing our way through conversation and dotted lines.

She needs to know which berries are safe to eat.

She needs to hear her mother speak nothing but kindness over her body and her spirit.

She needs to know that the chores don’t get done without her because she is a vital part of why our household functions. That She matters. She is a part of a community. A team. A family.

She needs to know her mother can see her purity and that no word or deed can tarnish that vision.

She needs to know her mother will hold that vision and nurture it, gently calling her back to it if ever she loses it.

She needs a hug every time she asks for one.

She needs “be aware” more than “be careful”.

And “what did you dream of last night” more than “hurry up and get ready.”

She needs to know her art is a valuable contribution to the world now, not “when you grow up to be an artist.”

She needs me.

Me, the one who she says makes her feel strong and like she can fly.

She tells me that the bubble of energetic protection we practiced placing around her in meditation last night wasn’t cuttin it. She said I am her bubble. She said I make her feel safe.

She needs me, the one who she says “knows EVERYTHING” to say, “I don’t know” sometimes. To say, “let’s figure it out together.”

She needs compassion more than she needs to “learn a lesson.”

She needs my time, my touch, my attention, my priority, my love.

She needs me to keep what Covid has taught me and never take on too much again. 

To keep this pace that honors her being and doesn’t rush.

To Never get lost in the guise of capitalism’s definition of success or education.

Those ideals were never mine and I gave them back.

My babies have me now, more than they ever did before and more than I ever knew I could give them.

Last February a voice told me, “A year from now you will hold twice as much light”, and I couldn’t imagine how. Now I’m starting to see it.

And feel it.

My babies deserve the world but not the one I grew up in.

So I give them EVERYTHING I am so they can create a new one.

, , , , , , , , , , , 0

Jealousy

Jealousy is hot red lava in my throat. There must be another way, a flip side to competition, some harmony that only love can build and nourish.

For, where I used to hide in the security of another, I have found my hope. A seed of a larger dream. Lines that move like I do, watery, wet, stream. Refreshing. Cooling lava. Making stone and steam.

Jealousy must be what kept me small. Afraid to leave the warmth of a hearth in winter, afraid to travel for fear that my space would be filled if I were gone.

I am choosing to move without a map’s direction, to learn the whispers of the stars, to trust the creatures of the forest and their offers to house me. I am learning to find space that holds me as I dance.

And I am afraid, for each step of my foot breaks what was untouched, snapping twigs beneath perfect crystals of water, bending beneath my weight.

I am afraid but I move and I pray that my steps are not ever causing harm but rather showing a way, not the only way, but my way. So that all who cross paths with me might say, “Look. Look how far you’ve traveled and how safe you remain.” And when the snow melts and Spring begins again, I pray that my path unfolds before me in blossoms whose colors call me by name.

Mama Rose
, , , , , , , , , , 2

The night had never been longer

When I was waiting for Santa Claus – the night had never been longer

When I was stranded in Europe with no where to go, no phone, no map, no money and no words in their language and the people on the streets had it so much rougher than I and the man I was with couldn’t protect me and the clock never moved and time was not my friend and the ground was hard and my body cold and the sky was dropping rain that hung in the air and I was so hungry and thirtsy that each breath begged to drink it and the men in bars laughed as they walked to their cars at bar close and the one hit the other over the head with a golf club and there was so much blood and the ambulance took 45 minutes to come and the woman begging for a light had orange juice oozing from her bandaged arm as she reached toward me and the only one sober was lying but told the true stories of how the others became stranded in the night with his few words of English and only inches of personal space and spit that flew from between his two rotted front teeth and the black man danced in the street to his mp3 player and they said he’d come from Africa and couldn’t get home and no one had comfort and we all felt alone, the night had never been longer.

When we left the hostel in the forest at 4am to walk eight miles to make the train on time and the man who just spoke Spanish cackled as he took our room key back and said with wide eyes, “good luck”, as if he knew that luck was not enough to make it out alive and the trees all seemed as if they could house a predator and we had no weapons but pepper spray and a can in a sock and the women at the exit by the part that was the zoo were dressed in hardly anything and leaned into the windows of the cars they rode away in as they negotiated terms in words I didn’t know and my legs burned and burned and burned and I couldn’t stop and I wasn’t safe… the night had never been longer. The walk had never been longer.

When I tossed and turned in his bed, anxiety animating my legs and I knew, KNEW, something wasn’t right with us but I didn’t know my worth and I didn’t know love so I didn’t know what and at 4am I finally left and the giant snowflakes were orange in the light of the campus street lamps and I felt comfort as they melted on my face but I felt afraid as I walked quickly toward my car for fear of being taken but in truth he was the only one who ever took me without permission… the night had never been longer. The winter had never been longer.

When my nipples were bruised and bleeding and she would only sleep in my arms and I sat up in the bed and read the sign on the door a hundred times and I was hungry but couldn’t move and I had to pee but couldn’t move and everything hurt but everything was sweet and I was sweating through my sheets which no one told me would happen and her father was asleep because he didn’t have the milk and I was waiting for her inevitable stirring and fearing that her cry would mean I waited to long to meet her needs and was an imposter not a mother but a failure and a fraud and my mind played out scenarios where water bottles accidentally fell off ledges and crushed her head and I was so, so tired… the night had never been longer.

I wrote a poem while I was in Europe about the cruelty of time and how, still, I also trusted it to save me. I wrote in my daughter’s baby book that I prayed time wouldn’t take her from me. I wrote in my son’s that time was passing too fast.

I’m not sure if it was time that found me alive or nursed me back to health but it was time that brought me through all of those nights. I’ve almost forgotten them.

I think that it’s time.

I think I am time.

, , , , , , , , , , , , 0

It doesn’t last

The spring is here but it won’t last,

It will fold into heat

And heat will fall into wind and leaves will rustle and break

And snow will bend the limbs… bend my limbs so far that I think I’ll break but I don’t and then…

Its spring again

But it never lasts

And I’m only ever thinking of how quickly the cold will come and swallow me up again

And in those dark days as I dream of the flowers bursting and the birds singing through and beyond the sunset

I think too of how the Spring won’t last and Summer won’t last and Autumn won’t last

And in thought… Winter always seems to be where I land…

and… tonight I’d really love to just be where I am.

, , , , , , , , , , , , 0

Sometimes pt. 1

Sometimes I’m afraid that if there’s not somebody with me I’m going to fall inside myself.

and I don’t know what’s in there…

so, I’m not sure if it’s safe to go in alone.

But… I’m not sure if it’s safe to go in at all,

so I don’t want to bring you.

I don’t want to fall and have you jump to save me

I don’t want that at all.

I just want to feel… different, better, somehow.

Somtimes I feel like “oops, I’ve fallen in” and I’m deep and I can’t swim because I’m disoriented and up and down are the same place and every mirror is the same face,

but I don’t recognize her at all.

1 2 3 4 5
© Charlotte Rose 2017 - current. Unauthorized use or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Mama Rose with specific direction to the original content.
© Mama Rose 2021
Powered by WordPress • Themify WordPress Themes
Back to top