Last day for taxes

Not to scare you but here in Canada, we've got taxes due. 

The likelihood you're reading this after today it is high, so I'll say the date has probably come and gone, but for me right now, and for maybe the one or two of you who seem to actually read these words fairly soon after I post into the void of the internet - you might also feel some kind of urgency to do your taxes today or if you've already done it, good on ya and you can relax I suppose. 👌🏼

But it's funny how much looking at receipts brings up whole sections of memory. Years even. Especially if you've been disorganized at some point in your life like I have. Maybe you feel that way now. Maybe not. I like to imagine there are people who really do have systems in their work spaces that hold the details they need to be held. Like last year's receipt for a business purchase you're going to add to your tax deductions. It has taken years to get a reliable system together just for where I find scissors at any given time I need. That's a big deal in my world of paper making and graphic designing. My world shifts around so often, it's now a skill. 

Only my waywanderer friends will understand how good a warm drink is first thing on a crisp morning.

Nonetheless, I digress. I am looking at my life in the form of receipts, a rainbow of dates spread across the floor - and I am trying my best to not get sucked in, but it's like looking at photos or journal entries of major changes and choices, junctures of my life. Big stuff. Big emotion. 

I'm realizing it's not what I think it is. Doing taxes is a little bit sacred. A bit of a reckoning I suppose. A bit of a telling. A bit of a confession. A bit of a promise. Strange to think of it like this. It's a bit of a ritual. It's a good thing perhaps... 

Not how I've thought of it before. 

But I can see it and it makes me smile. 

I think I'll lean into it. For now.

Something treasured even. That would be amazing. Wow. I like this train of thought. 

Haha..... Ok. I guess I'll leave it there. 

Be well, ye strangers of the void. Eyes I never see. Till we meet again next. I hope you get your taxes done 😜✌🏼

I'm now 33

 Strange. Still alive. Wasn't expecting that one.

And what a weird life! I thought I had it in the bag on some level. Back when I was younger and believed in a fantasy version of reality. I had no idea how vastly different it really was.

And yet, I've also come to realize life is not as vastly different as what I grew up believing. It still comes down to being like a child, full of wonder and curiosity, love and empathy for vulnerable things. I didn't understand what I had. I think I value it with more maturity now, even though the framework is no longer valid for my life path. I still see religion as a brilliant way to essentially pass along a book of memes, a common language shared by believers, and as such, it is a powerful way of being which offers vast value to the next generations, so long as they can still think and act for themselves, adapting to the new life we have and not repeating the same pathologies of our foreparents.

I read my book of mormon the other day, when I was in deep despair, and found comfort in the words of a man who became a legend to his people. A myth more than anything. Joseph Smith was not particularly educated and yet he had a gift in the way he presented the world to his followers. I don't entirely think his ideas were bogus. I wish I could forget the truth I know now though and just follow a script, but I can't go back. I see his empire with its full truth now and not just the fantasy.

I am surprised to have lived to see 33. Every year past 20 has been a shock. I believed his words about the end of days. I see it much differently now. He wasn't entirely wrong. But Jesus and the second coming weren't as literal or dangerous. Much more nuanced and internal. An individual sense of Christ and a second coming inside each human, embracing their own truth and compass of compassion. 

So here's to the best year I've ever had the fortune of living.... Having been raised from the dead by my own bloody hands, I am made new in the knowledge that my old life is gone and I have a chance to start over, trusting only in the step in front of me and the guidance I feel when I lean into the bigger picture.

I thought I knew shit before. 

Maybe I don't need to.

Maybe I'm enough, just as I am. 

What's a good friend app?

It's been a long while.

A lot has happened. 

Inside probably more than outside, which is saying a lot. I feel like I'm in a constant state of limbo, processing so slowly, but maybe the speed is just indication of how much has changed. 

I have been off of Instagram for almost half a year. Right at the peak of what could have been my big break. But it felt wrong and it was messing with my head. I've come to conclude that Instagram itself has been the mediator between my relationships. Social media in general has been the filter through which my relationships have collapsed. Feeding me people and stories I wasn't ready for. Feeding me things I didn't have time to adjust to. Burn out. Fatigue. Love. Caring. Depression. Over exposure. Overwhelm. It's all there right under our noses.

I don't know how much sense it will make to any potential readers.... I use this blog so infrequently it won't make much sense to call it a journal or diary.... And yet it's probably the closest thing to that I have. Strange I feel better writing this here than on paper. I don't yet understand that. Nonetheless.... I have been shattered. And I haven't picked up the pieces. I don't feel safe enough to. I let down my guard and I feel.... Unsafe. Unsafe in.... My relationship I guess. Which is strange because it seems fine. Good even. I don't know where to turn to talk about the silent pain. I sure keep it inside, locked away where it's safe. It seems to me that the pain wants to break up. Again. Which is what I've already done so many times and I don't know that's fair. But I'm still here. Still in pain. Since the beginning. She's changed. She's grown. She's actively growing. And getting closer and closer to what I think I need in a partner. But I still feel wounded. It never gets touched. I never get touched. Not like I need. 

I'm still polyamorous but I don't do anything about that. And it grieves me. It hurts so bad. I feel so torn and broken. Depression is my closest friend. I wish I could say it were music, but I don't feel like singing much when I'm around her. This all feels awful to admit. Terrible. But truth is deeply in my body and I don't know how to say I need more or less. I need more freedom and less attachment. I need more love than she can provide and I need less asked of me. I need to feel truly seen on a different level. I feel small and yet fully responsible for myself and her. I don't like feeling like I am in a parental role so often. Soothing her so often.... So much of my day is taken up just soothing her. I need to get outside more. Away. Alive. Breathing. I need more friends. I need more social life out here. I've been in this dynamic too long. I've forgotten I can make friends on my own. The last friends I made were great but that blew up like coffee in my face.... Im still sore from that one.

So I guess I need to move on. I can't be myself so long ad I stay like this. I need more friends. Period. I guess I better start looking. 

Newfoundlanders have got my fucking RESPECT

(photo of a map and history of Newfoundland, 

as given on the "Where Once They Stood" poster by Walter Andrews ©2003)

The lady at the post office today told us a story about her earlier experiences growing up in Newfoundland, and how she remembers winters where they had like 15-19 feet of snow, and they had to dig their way out from a second story window, because the snow was so high - and they had to be cautious not to step on telephone wires - that's god damn TELEPHONE WIRES 😲😱 - level with the snow, because it had dumped so much cold white stuff! The snow was THAT high, that they had to be careful not to get electrocuted!!!!!! Now THAT's a different level of ninja.

And she wasn't some old lady that told me this story, either - she's maybe 50, so like... that's fracking nuts! That's recent. The shit these people had to go through just to LIVE here. I mean, I'm standing on the shoulders of giants, smart phone in my pocket, typing on a laptop like some rich nerd at a cafe - I'm spoiled and privileged in my life to have seen easier winters, and less war. I can't IMAGINE how horrific it would have been through the ages, with all the wars and battles they've fought (which is a lot more than you might imagine).

This is the battlefront of Canada. These people have given their lives for their families. They grew up without granddads, a lot of them, and they have war in their blood. These people have been through Hell. Like, actual Hell, and I'm surprised they are still doing this out here.

Fuck. Surprised they're alive really. Their history, it's full of intense stuff, and I'm continually awed by the sacrifice and grit of these people.

And if this is the contrast of the battlefront of Canada - and considering I never knew how bad these people had it - having lived so far out West in Alberta (in relative safety), I can only imagine the vastness of war, the damage it has wreaked, and is still wreaking, on the lives of those I've never met, who still battle daily, in less peaceful countries than Canada.

#impressed
#humbled
#feelingthehearttug
#travelbug
#servicebug
#lovebug

Honest fractures

I've been fractured.

Do you know what it means to own your story? It means to stop lying. It means to stop hiding. Are you ready for that? I hope I am. Everything rides on my ability to tell the truth now. I have to be completely honest with myself, my lover, my family.

And I'm scared. I've never let the fractured pieces have a say in the same story. I'm frightened to tell the whole truth.

She assures me I can tell her the worst of me, but I don't trust her. And I think I have to trust myself more than anyone else anyway. If I tell the truth, I tell it for me and I tell it to be free of shame.

The real question is, will I still love myself if I finally include all of these fractured pieces as part of my honest story? And can I tell that story out loud?

Newfoundland

I'm about to pack up for the last time.

This is an odd feeling as I scrape my memories off this floor... I'm gonna miss that stupid tan carpet... These old windows that should have been replaced two years ago that are growing Mushrooms like something from a strange novel involving fairies and dwarves. That banister I would hang over like a rag doll... The scratch marks at the door from the puppy I loved so much. The table dad built and the storage room that is basically a bunker for the day the apocalypse hits. Gonna miss these little quirks.

My heart is hurting like I've got a medical condition, which I might, but that's beside the point.

I'm moving to Newfoundland. That's huge. I've never been there. I'm moving there not because Ive been there and it feels like home already. I'm scared. I'm tired. I wanna cry. But I'm doing it because of a million reasons. Well. Maybe not a million, but something close to that.

I have suffered so much loss, it's time to start over. Completely. I'm selling my bus, my little home on wheels. I'm selling a bunch of my gear and moving on. I don't want these old memories to haunt me. The faces, the names... I'm tired. I don't want to keep getting dragged down. It's time to fly.

Farewell Alberta. I will think of you fondly. I will remember the good times. I will remember the success and the romance, I will remember the dancing and loving. Thank you for everything. I am setting sail into a new life.

Wish me luck. My heart might need it.

I'm falling I'm falling I'm falling
I'm crying I'm crying I'm crying
I can't I can't I can't