waves

"If someone doesn't believe in me, I can't believe in them."

I don't know whose quote this is.
But this is the greatest truth.

If someone doesn't believe in me, I do not and will not - no, scrap that - Cannot believe in them.




Bring peace to my waves.
Bring peace.
I weather enough storms on my own.
I must give my Love for peace.
Child of storm, it just comes slowly.
But I must learn.
And I will.



Maria Listra, 35, -...and now fill this gap-
Writer?
Actress?
Anthropologist?
Humanitarian?
Educator?
Poet?
Artist?
Who?

Who.



A perfect stranger gave me a big bunch of flowers today.
And this made me very happy.


I want my ideals and my philosophy to drive my life.
Hand myself over to my soul.
In my heart I am a philosopher, therefore, I should live like one.


I love all of you.
This week, I'm taking everything very slow.
Babysteps.
I have time.



Seek beauty.
In everything.
Do no harm.
Make your heart happy.



So.
YOUR NAME. COMA. YOUR AGE IN SOME TIME. COMA. WHO? WHO? WHO?


Peace, always.
Yours truly.
M.

This.

This
this
this


With love.
M.

Point B

If I should have a daughter, instead of "Mom," she's gonna call me "Point B," because that way she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. And I'm going to paint solar systems on the backs of her hands so she has to learn the entire universe before she can say, "Oh, I know that like the back of my hand."

And she's going to learn that this life will hit you hard in the face, wait for you to get back up just so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air. There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by Band-Aids or poetry. So the first time she realizes that Wonder Woman isn't coming, I'll make sure she knows she doesn't have to wear the cape all by herself because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I've tried.

"And, baby," I'll tell her, don't keep your nose up in the air like that. I know that trick; I've done it a million times. You're just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house, so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else find the boy who lit the fire in the first place, to see if you can change him."

But I know she will anyway, so instead I'll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boots nearby, because there is no heartbreak that chocolate can't fix. Okay, there's a few heartbreaks that chocolate can't fix. But that's what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything, if you let it.
I want her to look at the world through the underside of a glass-bottom boat, to look through a microscope at the galaxies that exist on the pinpoint of a human mind, because that's the way my mom taught me. That there'll be days like this. ♫ There'll be days like this, my momma said. ♫ When you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises; when you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you want to save are the ones standing on your cape; when your boots will fill with rain, and you'll be up to your knees in disappointment.
And those are the very days you have all the more reason to say thank you. Because there's nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline, no matter how many times it's sent away. You will put the wind in winsome, lose some. You will put the star in starting over, and over. And no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute, be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life. And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting, I am pretty damn naive. But I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily, but don't be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it. "Baby," I'll tell her, "remember, your momma is a worrier, and your poppa is a warrior, and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more."

Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things. And always apologize when you've done something wrong, but don't you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining. Your voice is small, but don't ever stop singing. And when they finally hand you heartache, when they slip war and hatred under your door and offer you handouts on street-corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.


I like this.
M.

learning

i will tell you, my daughter
of your worth
not your beauty
everyday.
(your beauty is a given. every being is
born beautiful)
knowing your worth
can save your life.
raising you on beauty alone,
you will be starved.
you will be raw.
you will be weak.
easy clay.
always in need of someone telling you how beautiful
you are.

“

—	emotional nutrition, nayyirah waheed I have so much left to learn. With love. M.

if you really love a writer

“Everyone wants to give a writer the perfect notebook. Over the years
I’ve acquired stacks: one is leather, a rope of Rapunzel’s hair braids its
spine. Another is tree-friendly, its paper reincarnated from diaries of
poets now graying in cubicles. One is small and black as a funeral dress,
its pages lined like the hands of a widow. There’s even a furry blue one
that looks like a shag rug or a monster that would hide beneath it—and
I wonder why? For every blown-out candle, every Mazel Tov, every
turn of the tassel, we are handed what a writer dreads most: blank
pages. It’s never a notebook we need. If we have a story to tell, an idea
carbonating past the brim of us, we will write it on our arms, thighs,
any bare meadow of skin. In the absence of pens, we repeat our lines
deliriously like the telephone number of a parting stranger until we
become the craziest one on the subway. If you really love a writer, fuck
her on a coffee table. Find a gravestone of someone who shares her
name and take her to it. When her door is plastered with an eviction
notice, do not offer your home. Say I Love You, then call her the wrong
name. If you really love a writer, bury her in all your awful and watch
as she scrawls her way out.”

—	If you really love a writer; Megan Falley

This is spectacular.
The idea, the writing.

Spectacular.
M.

oh, my darlings

don't fret.
beauty is everywhere.
there are people all over the world who would love to know you, the real you, not the glossed over edited you.
people to lift you, inspire you.
people to raise your pulse, and make you catch your breath.
people to make you see how beautiful everything is, in its peace or in its pain.
people to wonder what your dreams are, as opposed to tell you to let them go.

imagine a lifetime lived like this.
what a wondrous thing it would be.


little miracles - don't chase them away.
don't let other peoples' words break them, or fracture them.
and keep your eyes open for magic.
for the old friend you haven't seen in a while, or someone who passes you who's smiling for no reason, or someone who looks like they are so unreasonably happy that it's almost contagious, or first snow, or last snow, or first flowers, or last flowers.
we walk on ground that lives and breathes, and there's so much awesomeness just around us.

just because someone else has lost the ability to see it, does definitely not mean you have to

with love.
Your.
M.