*excerpt from my book

 Memories at times anchor one to the past and while the past may have been beautiful, it is no way of living- that is like clinging on to a ghost of you- a shell that is no longer inhabited by anything living and I know this well. All too well. I’ve been living in the past for far too long and every once in a while, I travel back in time, in the memories of yesterday. When I notice myself doing this, I realize, I have had a bad day- and I remember the colorful fish in a pond from my dreams. They are a kind of rare species in this world, and two of them are dead and floating in the crystalline waters of the Los Angeles Oasis which exist only in my dreams. Two of whom I loved and adored and will always love. Blue, Yellow, Green, Red, and I killed two relationships with these rare species. I cut all ties, and I miss them so, as if limbs were taken from my flesh. God knows why, and I probably deserved it. But I have to have faith in the universe, because nothing is more beautiful than that- when all is synchronized, the winds, the ruffles of paper, it is all so magical. Yes, magic does exist, and it is always the hand of the universe that creates the miracles. How then could the desert find a spring? Or the mountain be moved by a mustard seed? Or lightning grow out of pitch black night? Or a rainbow beam through a crystal? And I have faith in that. I do, and I know this and if there is anything I know it is this and only this. 

 

9.20.19

Self-Potrait, Practicing

I’m up before the sunrise. It’s calm and quiet and I can hear the symphony of crickets outside my window. Why don’t I do this more often?

The date is 9.20.19.  I have a full day today but I wanted to sneak in some meditation time before the storm. I intend to seize today and somehow squeeze in a workout before work, a 20 minute practice with my guitar, some vocal  exercises and singing on my commute to work, a work shift at the Art Museum, and lastly extend my love to my friends which I have not seen in a while and miss, in the evening. Maybe hopefully sing? If the opportunity arises. I’m awaiting my next stage, but I have work to do. I have confidence to learn, and practice to achieve. But easy does it, and patience is key. My stage will come, I can feel it.

Life is a balance between the quiet meditation of your person and inner self, and the gift of sharing my self with those I love. I want to be more loving, more giving, but in turn I need to love myself to be able to give those I love the most of me. So, this to me is an act of self-love. And I have every  intention to spill my heart to those deserving of its honey.

Ps. Today my new guitar arrives! Finally, my very own Cordoba guitar.

 

with love and admiration. Always and truly yours,

 

bluebird

Venting

I’ve silenced my voices. The very curious one. the confident one- the stern one and the one that knows who she is and what exactly it is that she wants. Why have I silenced these voices? Why do I hold her back ? The free child within me, she is begging me to let her free. She has been begging as far as I can remember but lately all that there has been is silence. Is she still there?

Who am I? I do not have the slightest clue. I used to be so sure, so full of confidence in the spirit that roams within me but lately I cannot feel her. I have not even picked up my guitar and I can barely bring myself to write tonight.

A part of me is trying not to convince myself that I am ill, I fear I am.  Why do I hide? Why am I so ashamed? Whenever I feel this way I want to escape again, leave and start again, fool myself into thinking that my answers are elsewhere. And truthfully everyone and my own sanity included, keep on telling me that I should stop running away that I need to grow up and I need to learn responsibility but why do I object to it so harshly and why am I waking up every morning and force myself into wearing that coat and those black pumps… why do I force myself to be part of that corporate world? Why did I succumb to this mold that I do not fit a part of ? I’ve once said I would never be a part of and here I am succumbing for comfort for security-foolish! foolish!  I’d rather live for a penny. I could care for less for this body. Let it burn, I am tired of it keeping me down. I am sick. That is the truth, this body is ill and I could roar and scream to it and I want to beat it. Pardon me- I am only venting.

Life is hard so very hard sometimes and I feel so very much alone, I do not have my  comrade nearby, a confidant, not a true friend- perhaps I am being a bit dramatic but I do push them all away.  I push all those I love away.

And so here I lie alone, in bed in my own company filled with the traffic sounds of the restless and sleepless city of Los Angeles where the light reflects off of windows and the sirens moan in the distance. I never imagined myself being so lonely. Am I unloveable?  I wonder what it is I am doing wrong? I do not expect you to have any answers. I do not expect you to be even reading this- but well, what of it now. I may as well not post this. I just need to I don’t know- vent.

Where is she? The girl so full of love and hope. So full of adventure and mystery. Where she saw every rose like a miracle? and where she too felt like a miracle ? I suppose I am tired. I am tired of waiting. I am tired of longing. I am tired of watching all those films in front of me and people passing by with all that I desire. “They are so happy,”  I think to myself. What is that I am missing?

Can I just time travel to those old records of time where all was well and skies were blue and the roses grew? Take me there tonight. Please take me there tonight, in my sleep.

Let me dream tonight. Let me forget tonight and let me feel free.

I am tired.

good night, to this restless heart.

 

yours truly,

 

bluebird

 

 

 

 

 

I write but I never publish…

I write but I never publish I am not sure why. I write just to write, and I do not realize that sharing it would be a great deal of help to others. Some post I decide to share but most of them I do not.  Most, I never publish and isn’t that merely the opposite of what my intent here is for. I need to learn vulnerability.

I am scared of being vulnerable. Most days I feel like a pathetic human.  I don’t know anything about my life, and where it will lead me- there is no certainty in anything. I have no answers. I am just as lost and confused. But I’m trying. I’m at it. I’ll continue at it. And I will either fail again and again, or finally succeed.

And if it is out of fear, then I say the hell with it! I am not scared anymore.  Not one of our trails is the same so we have to follow our own path and no one to tell you which way to go. I’m pretty far in the journey, and I’ve made it this far I might as well keep going. Even though, I am constantly lost on this trek too and I cannot tell you what to do, but at least I can share my experience and well I can shed light to a bit of this path.  The same path we are all following with our own direction and compass.

My compass faces North. I want to go up. So, I will only look up. That, I know. If you want to look up with me, dream with me, risk it all with me. Then by all means, come with me. You are not alone. We are not alone.

I write and today, I will publish.

 

yours truly,

 

Leah

 

 

Currently Hibernating…

image

I am currently hibernating in the most loudest cities there is, city of Los Angeles, but it can be done.  I just ignore the sirens, the lights and the late party life. I am taking this time to reflect, and get better- lick my wounds. I’ll be back soon my loves.

what luxury to be here!

 

my best,

 

bonnie bluebird

 

 

 

What I love…

 

What I love… I love reading, writing, I love my coffee in the morning. I love books, film, photography. I love flowers in the Spring, eucalyptus, lavender, dried flowers pressed in my books, flowers as gifts, flowers picked from the fields, flowers from past lovers. I love nostalgia. I love candles, chocolate, and wine. I love being wild and irresponsible. I love grapes. I love eating and singing and dancing. I love nature and camping. I love travel, backpacking, hiking, I love adventure. I love Edgar Allen Poe, Mark Twain, Walt Whitman, and John Steinbeck. I love the ocean and the sea and the cliffs and the forest and the trees. I love hand-written letters and postcards, I love little notes and all my journals. I love music, and family, and food, and sharing meals. I love people, people laughing, people smiling, people crying. I love hugs, I love fires, fires that burn, fires that ember, fires that smoke. I love the rain and the moon. I love the shapes the clouds form, the colors of the sunset, and the constellation of the stars. I love magic and rooftops. I love warm Summer nights and cozy Winter blankets, I love the leaves of the Fall. I love to sleep,  to sleep with my lovers, watch films with my lovers, snuggling with my lovers, being silent with my lovers. I love talking, caressing, I love nurturing. I love my dog and my plants. I love this pen. I love this paper. I love, I love… I love the wind, the breeze, the fresh linen scent, a clean house, home cooked meals, I love brotherhood and camaraderie. I love, I love… so much but I don’t know a damn thing about how to love.

 

From yours truly,

bluebird

Dreams of the Ocean

I have 30 minutes to try to remember this dream- these dreams. These past two nights I have dreamt of water, the ocean, the shore. One where a group of us flew in by plane, through skyscrapers and city, into the flat horizon of the ocean. Upon landing, there it was, there I was, in my white sleeping gown again, ready to dive into the water. When in that, a wave the size of a large hand cloaked me, moutained over me, comforted me and then just like that, was swiftly gone. My friend, who was with me said, ” It does that from time to time.” And I in awe, turn to look at the vanished ocean turn into a small insignificant pond or puddle of water. But apparently, it does that. I left and turned away but before abandoning the shore, I gave a slight wink of an eye and a hand gesture that spoke without words but said to the puddle of water, “I’ll be back, I’ll be back to play.”

These bodies of water, these shores were playful, joyous and cheery. I couldn’t describe it another way. They were as if there were a child, a free child, wanting to play. Did I forget to mention the pair of black Pheobe birds and flight? The next dream the following day was slightly different.

I was on foot on the shore. It was daytime and all I remember were shark fins in the distance, penetrating the surface of the water and a couple, a distant couple, that I was acquainted with somehow. I sat there and again, the waves were playful. As if they were asking me to join it. The waves, like an outstretched arm ready to greet, stretched toward me asking me to take its hand. And the waves would reach me and envelope me with its playful joy and like that dragged back to its body vanishing before me once more. There I stood upon desolate sand and what was a sea but only its remains, a tiny puddle. But somehow I knew,  that it was pulling a prank, a joke on me and it is bound to return and come back as an ocean.

In neither of these dreams do I allow myself to be overjoyed, to be enveloped by the body of water. I refrain. I hold back, and I don’t know why. Do you?

I fancy the thought that my dreams are my counselors, an inner voice of the subconscious world. They can be teachers if we listen.