A Space to Remember

Someday I will write about what it means to ‘hold space’ for someone. Someone you love. Someone you don’t quite understand. Someone you know only as a “stranger”. Someone you do not know but love. Someone you do not know and hate.

Today, however, all I want to do with this space is Remember.

Remember Lori Kaye, z”l. She put herself

Who stepped in front of her Rabbi, Rabbi Goldstein, when a lost gunman took his shot. I don’t know Lori. From the words I’ve gathered, she was the light and energy of her Shul. Known for committing mitzvahs (good deeds) and giving tzedaka (charity). Deeds that came natural to her. She was known as a Eshet Chayil, a Woman of Valor.

I remember Lori Kaye as a Woman of Valor.

Today this space is for 8 year old Noya Dahan and her uncle Along Peretz. A gunman injured them during his attack on the Chabad of Poway.

Today this space is for all of the Chabad of Poway congregents. Those who suffered by being present and those who suffer in the wake of this tragedy.

I grew up in the Temple Adat Shalom Synagogue just down the street. I experienced the invaluable gift that is belonging. Belonging to a community. Belonging to a place of worship. Belonging to yourself.

Today this space is for all of the Jewish communities. Hold each other close.

Tragedy, it’s maddening darkness, breaks open. It takes time. It takes grief. But it does break. And the light of those we lost pours out. Powerful and warm and there for you. For us. To help us find a way to hold space for hate and fear (in a way that won’t define or dissolve you).

Today I light a candle for remembrance and burn incense for breath.

60437702_2283633261896178_5532139905582366720_n

Keep breathing, babies. You are so loved.

-Meg

Happy Galentine’s Day!

Happy Galentine’s day to all you magical women! Female friendship is certainly something to celebrate! And women in general are pretty freaking awesome (and complex and sometimes frustrating).

You, badass woman with a golden heart and strong mind- keep being your unique self. Embrace the title “woman” however you want. There is no one way or wrong way.

Go forth and love! Show this love to yourself. Kiss a lady-friend right on her face! And because love never truly runs out…share some with a fella. Because there are some bad-ass guys out there standing behind their goddesses.

Let’s keep supporting each other.

💪🏼
This is bebe girl Kennedy Elizabeth’s first Galentine’s. She is my niece and my love for her is boundless!

Humble Love

In the spirit of candy hearts and romantic feels as Valentines day approaches, I would like to share a poem I wrote about love.

I wrote it for Nicolas. Hoping to show him a bit of how I experienced the relationship and friendship growing between us.

humble love

i think of you
free flowing
-falling free
born in giddy bursts
with grace

burning
-buoyantly
filling a room 
- a curious light

greeting
-gently
my world 
of unknowns
humbly asking
"do you hear what I hear?" 

pressing
-playfully
in the palm of my hand
small moments
marveled into stone

and i buzz yellow
from the place just above
my belly button
where my truth lives

i think of you 
-and me
growing each other
into beautifully strange
instruments
a two-person orchestra

humming along
we gather
music
sounding like love
feeling like freed

With love & sugar,

Meg

Beautifully Strange

It’s a pretty average Thursday at work. I respond to common-place emails and try to sit still. And then I’m completely still. A moment between parking reservations and room confirmations…a moment of grief and longing and nostalgia and wonder and love and light found me. Pushed me properly into my swivel chair. My fingers no longer typing. Instead they relax open as I rest the back of each hand on my legs. A tide of the unknown in the category of feelings heading my way. Yet I sit so still.

Oh! Oh…it’s a sensation completely unique in it’s complexity. I’m talking about that sensation of missing someone whose no longer alive. A bruise-to-the-touch feeling. Starts and stays at the heart.

I felt the strongest need to see my Grandma Mac. I miss you. That’s all I wanted to say. I wanted her validation specifically.

“Grandma, it’s weird…it’s beautifully strange. I miss you in a different way in this moment. The intensity a slightly different frequency and I don’t quite know what that means. But I miss you as a woman you’ve never met. And that’s not the weird part…the beautifully strange part is that I know (a knowing from the root of the root) that you already knew me as a woman before I grew into her. And you were never worried. Even when I got lost and lost and lost again in my 20’s.”

And then just at the top, just before the creschendo of it feeling painfully unbearable, like a small cut on the lungs…I felt peace. Light.

I think about her often; however, it had been a while since I missed her so intensily. Unquenchably. Opening. I let myself miss her and I didn’t break onto the floor. I let myself really miss her knowing the absolute impermanence of this silly thing called life. I let myself miss her without knowing what to do with it. I carried my grief with compassion. Maybe for the first time.

This otherwise average Thursday continues. The end of the day finds me at home and a bit cranky and still in the ‘on’ mode that work demands. I attempt an impromptu exercise known as mindful vacuuming. Which abruptly ends when I jam the vacuum into the corner of a box peeking out from under the bed. That’s it. I turn off the vacuum a bit dramatically. I use my heel and yank this troublesome box completely out.

It’s one of the many boxes filled with a mish-mash of memories from unmarked decades. Which is why I paused when I saw the open Strathmore sketchbook on top. I collected them and filled their pages specifically in my college years. The time of life when feelings needed space outside of the lines..

The book is open to a page covered by very deliberate handwriting. Extra small and extra neat. A sign that I was pulling these words from a delicate place.

The first line read: “SometimesI have to remind myself that it’s ok to miss someone.”

The vibrant red of my crankiness diffuses. Despite the bed and the chair I sit on the floor. This entry is from May 2011 and a year after the aforementioned Grandma passed away.

Again I feel the energy of unique to nostalgia and longing and grief. I let myself miss her again.

I read over each word knowing they were once coaxed out by a 21 year old version of me. She’s still a girl who doesn’t know exactly how to carry loss. She’s asking for validation in a journal hoping some other part of her will know the right words.

Grief, for me at 21 and still at 29 is a very private act. Not out of shame or denial. It’s because I want to be alone with the one I miss. I want to know where I feel their absence. I need to touch that place. So that I can remember them wholly. With tears and laughter. With anger and fear. With grappling acceptance.

Even still, at the center of grief waits a loneliness so pure it can feel frightening. Like your bones may break the same minute you forget how to breath.

But in this moment, on the floor I feel something weird…something beautifully strange. The girl at the door of her 20’s and the woman curiously toying with her 30’s…reach for each other.

Eight years ago I held grief in two hands and tried to accept it. Wanting, ultimately, the same thing I wanted this morning. Validation. For someone to touch that still-raw place and say, “Miss her, baby. Miss her until you know how to get off this floor.”

And I felt more than heard those words. From the place just beside my heart. Where I carry my Grandma and the light she gave me.

Below is the excerpt (no edits made). Sharing her memory with the world through my writing…that’s how I get to meet her as a woman.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that it’s ok to miss someone. Even when the act of ‘feeling’ can’t change anything. Can’t bring them back. 

My grandma’s house smelled like freshly brewed coffee in the mornings and spaghetti at night.

Only on Friday’s were we allowed a diet soda and popcorn.

She had a candy tray of Hershey kisses. A chocolate in exchange for a real kiss.

Her refridgerator was covered in magnets. Family and friends never returned from their travels without a new one for her.

On Thursday nights, Sarah and I would watch survivor on her couch. She’d call each family member during the commercials to ask who they believed would be voted off. After the show, she’d watch us walk three houses down.

My grandmas was my neighbor.

She pronounced wash ‘warsh’ and always used those corn on the cob holders.

Her house was covered in butterflies.

She sent us to the ‘time-out’ chair, made us take naps, assigned us chores…she taught us to be respectable adults.

Sarah and I used to sneak her hair spray. I’ve never come across another bottle of that brand.

Her vices were hostess cupcakes and Pay Day candy bars. Both kept in the freezer.

She never seemed tired. Even after raising ten grandchildren.

She never seemed scared. Even after fighting seven years of cancer.

She always took home napkins and condiment packets from restaurants. She always held onto food a bit past its expiration date. Ok…years past its expiration date.  

She’d send Papa after us when we called from the nurses office at school.

She loved Hamburger Factory and the slots and her Chargers.

She taught me how to tie my shoes, how to roller blade and even how to walk on stilts.

She never missed a place, a dance recital, a baseball game, a soccer game, a basketball game, a band concert or a birthday.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that being afraid that I’ll forget is valid but impossible when you love someone that much.


Thank you for reading and listening as I unpacked this ‘average’ Thursday.

With love & more love for good measure,

Meg

[New Poem] – I Am

 

 

 


I am

an opal:
colorful, fragmented       I am

a sucker for a swing set!
…a little high       I am

an artist witch,
with a black bear patronus       I am

an ally for alliteration
created to create!       I am

a poem-
lines of wonderment, light       I am

a romantic.
a braless goddess under the moon!       I am

a tornado-inspired dancer,
greeting the ocean, nude       I am

a solo train-traveller,
collecting dusk in summer       I am

an alleyway in Dubrovnik.
a synagogue in Tzfat.        I am

a dandelion-
-in my favorite front pocket

Mihaela Lina, December 2018


Inspiration Backstory & One Sweet FYI
A new poem inspired by a freewrite I did earlier this year. The mission of the writing assignment was to repeat ‘I am’ and fill the page with all that I embody. All that I love. All that I seek. And I double-downed on the assignment by challenging myself to write from the yellow-y core (solar plexus). Believing that what comes from there is real and honest.

FYI: I’ll be using my hebrew name (Mihaela Lina) moving forward as my pen name for my misc. writing!

With Love & two names,
Meg

 

Captured: When Music Meets Marrow

I found myself entranced. Mystified. Intrigued. Moved to the marrow.

I experienced the natural high and astounding beauty of being present. Connected to something far greater than my silly ruminating thoughts.

Oh! Just wait until I tell Joan (bad-ass therapist)! She will perk up! Smile over her tea and say “Alas! Progress! Our recently fair-weather friend!” (She doesn’t typically use words like ‘alas’; however, I wouldn’t put it past her).

I will tell her about friday using words like ‘ecstatic’ and ‘curious’ and she will reach for her notebook.  Making a note that reads something like:

On Friday, November 11th, Megan was introduced to the unicorn of music – Stevie Ray Vaughn. Her boyfriend, Nicolas, the music-curator in the relationship, has once again shown her the light. (Maybe she’ll even throw in an ‘Amen’).

You see, something beautifully broke open on Friday. Creating a ‘before’ and ‘after’.

Before Friday my weird little brain existed in a pergatory of a dopamin-deficiency. My brain and I decided we have to at least humor the possibility of pleasure. Instead of rolling our eyes and going back to bed. And to be real, it was beginning to feel a bit cruel and clasterphobic. This confused brain and I were past the jonesing period. Now I just felt desperate. I craved the craving to stand before a piece of art, breathless and tuned in. It was time. Time to touch back to some ground of my identity. As a human experiencing the world. Really anything beyond ‘Depressed Girl – Keeper of ruminating thoughts and unregulated emotions’.

It was time; however, I also needed a bit of reminding. A rope of sorts to pull me closer to that feeling of belonging. A extra caffeine shot to the old factory senses (currently experiencing the tastes and smells and sights of the world as: dry toast).

Enter: Stevie Ray Vaughn and Double Trouble.

Well, enter Nicolas, my mountain of music, who pulled up their performance recorded live sometime in 1983. Nick bypassed any introduction and instead adjusted the volume, went to his place on the couch. Waiting patiently. Waiting for the high to hit.

And when it hit-

But first, let me quickly explain something relevant to the context of this story. I enjoy music. I listen to all kinds. Mostly whatever someone else puts on. Admittedly, music intimidates me a bit. It’s the creative outlet that alludes me. Teasing me at the surface and then disappearing. Dancing into more complicated depths. And that’s not the worst thing. I still enjoy it. But on the rare occassions where an artist or a band pulls me completely in and shows me the language…I revel in it (and maybe feel compelled to write about it). I remember the dress I was wearing the afternoon I first heard War on Drugs. I was chopping up vegetables to roast the day Nina Simone walked, in her way, into my soul.

So-

I sat on my side of the couch and felt my body hum to the surrounding sound. That’s how it goes for me. My hips and my shoulders and my tapping feet catch on first. And I feel compelled to look closer. Listen closer. Leaning in.

My friday focus, usually fickle, sharpens. I lean in more. Trying to understand what I am witnessing.

On the stage somewhere in 1983 is Stevie, playing guitar, communicating with the guitar, tapping into every inch of the guitars potential like some music mystic. He’s dressed and draped in accessories. An ecclectic and colorful style that grows on you. By the end you admire and desire a hat like his with its belt of silver buckles.

Backing him up is Tommy Shannon on bass. If you didn’t know the year you’d assume Tommy just stepped of The Boat That Rocked in 1970’s England. In other words on point and endearing.

Holding down the drums is Chris Layton. He could easily be your older brothers friend. The one who grabs a Sunkist from your fridge with ease and always down to jam for a bit. Sporting a non-descrept tank top and respectfully rocking a “Functional Mullet”.*

*Thank you Nick. You nailed this hair description.

And then it hits-

Woo! I feel it. Like a giddiness in my blood. This feels like losing control. Whoa! Except the ground doesn’t disappear. And I keep leaning in. The crashing and clumsy energy of my brain softly cracks open and then dissipates. Damn! A relief that is nothing short of ecstacsy. I’m not leaning in anymore.  I’ve arrived. Surrounded and exactly in the center. And here I’m completely back. Grounded and awake.

Perhaps you know, first hand, this beautiful experience. Existing through the routine of a Friday evening. Then something just short of magic happens. You watch as a musician out of the mist extracts sounds beautifully strange and permeating. Maybe you feel intrigued and infatuated. Stoked still and a little bit sweaty. You’re moved. Witnessing an artist create with every cell of their talent.

Feels surprisingly (and delightfully) intimate. Captured and capturing. You will carry this memory around in that glowy yellow cubby of your solar plexus. A place you can revisit wherever you go.

Friday night I watched SRV pull and manipulate and taunt and coax and breath sound out of his guitar. I felt so, for lack of a better word, happy that music is a thing that exists. And it feels familiar. Like clicking into place. The couch and apartment and street sounds and the world fall away. I’m nicely tethered to my partner beside me. Both of us smiling kind of goofily. Entranced and speechless except for the occasional exchange of ‘yeah, man!”

SRV

 

 

My Small Hope

Hello beautiful friends,

Yesterday I finished a very special piece of art. I look forward to sharing with you the details of this creation. Especially since it was created for and inspired by a group of people I’ve recently met ( and in the most vulnerable stage -thus far- in my life).

Stayed tuned for that post! In the meantime, here is the small frame of “Hope” I created:

44805867_508737036262730_5164761519912648704_n
“Hope” – 18x24in. – Water mixable oil paint, acrylics, colored pencil, ink, and water color markers Poem by the ever-wonderful, Emily Dickinson.

 

 

With love & hope,
Meg