The less I know, the more I feel

I have no idea what I’m doing and I’m doing it anyway. As they say, it’s only kinky the first time, or maybe the second…
Sometimes that means doing things that scare me the most. Sometimes that means getting really uncomfortable. Sometimes that means showing up. Sometimes that means putting myself out there even when there are nay-sayers and slayers. By sometimes, I mean always. And then I think, if I’m a no in the eyes of others or slaying myself by the lips of another, it’s because those are the voices in my head. As though they wear like an introduction sticker. “Hello, my name is…” These attachments, so comfortable and false. Outside illusions, old wounds, and pain. Those do not come from my heart, what’s true, is my electric-center, it’s my heart. That’s the charge, I feel it and it’s why you feel it with me. We are connected here.
Just because it’s not for someone else, doesn’t mean it’s not for you. I used to think this road was a little lonely, a year ago it was. How little I knew then. And how little I know now. I revel in the little I know and keep walking into the unknown. This is the freedom. It’s doing it anyway. It’s teaching it anyway. It’s loving it anyway. It’s living it anyway. The less I know, the more I feel, the more I see.

stepahnie birch

Please.

Please.
Please tell me all the ways I should cover myself or how I should close my mouth or soften my tone. Please tell I should put down my pen or I how should say words like “fuck” a little less. Tell me how you find me pretty when I smile or how bitchy I look when I frown. Tell me how I should not rage and blow steam or fall to the earth in grief. Tell me I should always pick myself up off the floor, lighten my loads, and give you butterflies with my words. Tell me how I should be so you can rest in your comforts of should.
And.
I’ll tell you that I’m not for you. For my heed does not rest in your comforts and words. Once gripped by others, molded in shame, and pent up by blame.
I’ll rage if I must.
I’ll fall if I must.
I’ll feel myself.
For I am not afraid.
With my words, my voice, my presence; I’ll show you that I’m not for you, I am for myself. I do not rest in comfortably, quiet, soft, and small ways. Mind your keeps as I keep spinning away.

stephanie birch

This childhood.

Back home to the bun life and living room dance parties with this one. I was going to write that we are back on our routine. I am not sure that exists right now. He’s living a childhood much different than mine. While, yes, I’m home with him most days. The others, when I’m pulled to my calling to be with others, for days or weeks, my work, my life, my creation; he bounces off to his dad’s shop. It’s a space of the artisan, furniture making, full of dust and dirt, a place to witness his dad’s joy and creation. This child is living a much different life than mine; a world of creativity and passion, that began to grow while in my womb and has continued to grow since the day his he met the world. He’s been there through the falls and losses, gains and triumphs. Surrounded by 4 small walls and a life of experience. A producer and director before he could speak, the quiet cheerleader rooting us along, individually and as a unit. He’s been there all along.
I don’t know that I’ve ever witnessed any of my parents, all four of them, in their life’s work, their joy, their creation. A job to me through them meant stress, exhaustion, overload, money scraping, and hours spent away from the table. I wish I could give them back their time; the only way to do so is to start with the man in my hands. His childhood is much different than mine. I never planned for him, and that’s where it all began. It’s the unplanned, uncertainty of it all that gave us life in our creative roles as parents, lovers, and charged us to go out and do and Be.
This is the fuck yes life.
Thank you.
Thank you.

stephanie birch

You leap. Again and again.

You leap.
Again and again.
You leap with your heart, not your head.
The mind will teach you to be cautious. It will thrive in patterns siphoned from the external world; society, relationships, experiences. It is the mind and its crusaders that preach “no, can’t, not enough, not for you, too tired, too old, too this or that.” This is the dysfunction. Diluting the YOU right out of you, to not say too much or stand too tall.
In the world of mimicry, it’s the superficial that funds the crowds. This is not about standing out to be different. This is about standing up to be tall, to be big, take up space. You will have to move away from the crowds; often times from everything you know. You’ll have to put certainty on the back burner and bring forth the uncertain. It’s the mystery that keeps the faith. It’s the unknown and the will that’s required to move you. It will feel like you’ve gone mad, your cheeks wet from release, your body will tremble and ache, and then you’ll see. You will use your body to feel. You’ll use your body to go inside. You’ll use your body to trust. The external may begin look different; society, people, experiences. You’ll let go of the superficial and the preachy crusaders.
You’ll be you. Like a child. Before the world put its tasks upon you. You’ll come back to genius. And this is where you’ll begin again, this is where you create.
You will leap into the unknown, again and again.
Swimming in mystery. This is the faith.

stephanie birch

The vows we take.

I often see the goddess in you.
The softness and the light.
I see your nurturing ways of mothering, leading, full esteem.
Until today. She says.
I had forgotten, in all the ways you are soft, there are places you are stone. There are stones still turning, tumbling and softening their edges.
You heal, I heal.
You feel, I feel.
I had to write the last two lines of your prompt because they are mine too.
The vows we take; maybe some stones are meant unturned.

stephanie birch