Posted by: tlboehm | June 19, 2014

Barking at Sheep

If you’ve read me more than once you are probably painfully aware there are more than a few things that tend to chap my pale hide. Since I’ve been on a “God,wut?” tangent over the past couple of posts, I may as well continue. Sheep can get complacent, muzzle down in the pasture. Sometimes a dog like me needs to sneak up behind one…and bark. So here’s the list in no particular order.

  1.  “I’ll pray for you.” Yeah, that little phrase isn’t worth the exhalation of Co2 it takes to say it if isn’t followed up with immediate action. Its right up there with the dreaded “How are you” greeting (the conjoined churchy twin of the “blessed and highly favored” response.  For the love of corn flakes if we can’t be honest in church with each other, where then can we be? As if the Big guy doesn’t know your whole existence is circling the toilet as you speak.) If you’re going to pray – grab that person in front of you by the hand and actually do it. Agree with them right there for whatever it is – from heat rash to total devastation. If you’re not gonna do it, don’t say it.
  2. Any cutesy talk about angels, from “God took your child because he needed another”, to “Here is an angel to protect you.”  Like anyone’s life and death deliverance was facilitated by some ringlet coiffed, suspiciously large domed, lute strumming, diaper or cloth draped toddler with gnat wings. War isn’t cute. If you’re invoking the power of something mighty created by the Almighty then represent the truth truthfully. Otherwise, you’re just about as effective as a Facebook meme. “What kind of angel do you need? Oh a sparkly one. That’ll fix the mess I’m in. Oh yay. Click, share.
  3. Defending your position with gore. In the age of graphic prime time fodder like “Bones” “The Walking Dead” and let’s not forget “Fox News” your dismembered, High Def horror is, no matter how personally wrenching and true, but mundane fare for the masses, especially if it’s already dead. Starving, mangled and or otherwise seriously compromised by this thing called planet earth roulette isn’t much better. I know that sounds harsh but most of your audience probably takes in multiple murders, crime reports, and stories of nature’s brutality in the 22 minute span it takes them to slurp a boxed dinner and stare sallow eyed at the nightly news report. Peppered and mixed as that report is with commercials for class action law suits against pharmaceutical companies, and sex/mood/life enhancing products pedaled by other pharmaceutical companies. Death without the promise of life is hopeless and your efforts, though well intended only promote hopeless. It will take more effort and you won’t get as many little likes on your interweb post but show the victory. Better yet, get out there yourself and feed the hungry, clothe the naked and offer real help to parents and children who face fear you cannot imagine. While you’re working, if you must share your Instagram moment – try doing so without including a selfie. It isn’t about YOU anyway. It’s about them.
  4. “I don’t need church, church people are hypocrites. I just need nature. That’s my church.” Hello. You’re a human. If you were perfect, you probably wouldn’t be sitting under that tree somewhere because you’d be making billions of dollars, curing cancer, and coming up with classroom desks that repel gum because you are perfect. Since you aren’t doing that, and you are sitting under that tree, you obviously didn’t pay much attention to the Creator that created the creation you’re using to avoid the creatures the Creator created you to buddy up with. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying creation and finding evidence of God in it but faith is multifaceted.  Submission to others, assembling with believers, forgiving etc. is all part of it. We are all hypocrites and we all are commanded to forgive and to love everyone. Even the church folk you’re trying to avoid by sitting under that tree. Make the effort, find a body of believers, be teachable and be usable. Otherwise you can sit under that happy tree and all you will be is fertilizer.
  5. Fighting a social firestorm phenomenon with peashooter scripture tidbits. Yes, the Word of God on the tongue of His people is one of the most powerful weapons of mass destruction in the universe but wielded at a nonbeliever can be as effective as swatting a wasp nest with your Tinkerbell wand. If you are so consumed with passion that you MUST engage the minions with your defense of all that is good and true – go for the kill shot with a weapon they can’t block. Don’t take on De Grasse Tyson’s number one fan with your stock excerpt from Genesis. Do your homework. Find an expert. There is a dancing plethora of really smart Christians out there in every field from neurobiology to quantum physics. Educators and thesis brandishing peeps with doctorates. Scientists who love science and love God and can articulate a truth without flame wars or financial support from Kirk Cameron. Find one of them. Post a link. Walk away. You’d better serve creation by feeding the hungry, clothing the naked and comforting the comfortless than by vehemently pontificating your position on creation, anyway.
  6. Misrepresentation of God’s people by random acts of stupidity and or sheer ignorance. This includes those of you Taitboys bumping, ichthys flaunting, stick family sporting holy highway rollers who drive like you’re three laps back in the Indie 500. I bump Taitboys too. Often. I also pay attention in traffic. God gave you a big ole frontal lobe. Use it. This category also includes passionate peeps who suffer from all manner of lapses in things like proper spelling, wild swings in position “Oh glory I just love Jesus I am so blessed yada yada yada to I am just a miserable worm undeserving of existence.” Don’t ride the fence. Don’t be lukewarm and don’t be afraid to rejoice but wow. If your written skills are abysmal – stick to warm fuzzy memes, ok? Lolcatese is only cute-ish if plastered under the furry visage of some domestic feline. Paired with a human speaking of the most high God? No. God uses real people for real action and so does the enemy but sometimes we face plant all by our little selves because we don’t watch where we put our big flat feet. Unless you like the taste of toenails – you must employ smarter tactics than your adversary or at least engage your audience if that is your only goal.

Rest assured I’ve engaged in pretty much every lapse of reason, inadvertent display of character flaws and flat out stupidity induced myopia listed above and more. I’ve judged, I’ve ridiculed and I misrepresent – often. That’s why I come to you now – friend Christian. Take it from a girl who has “Epic fail” written in India ink on her forehead most days. Talking the talk is a waste of breath if you aren’t living the life. God is a gentleman. He won’t call you names. He won’t even send a sheep dog to nip your woolly errant hide. I do that of my own volition because I love you and I want you to succeed. You can’t be perfect – but we all can be better.

Peace.     

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Posted by: tlboehm | June 18, 2014

God With Skin On

“Ron’s not really your Dad,” Mom said it flatly, like she’d asked me to pass the salt at the dinner table.  “Only reason I married Ron was to get out of Howard City. You remember George, he’s your real dad. ”  – (Where Wings Come from – TL Boehm)

 

I’ve been turning those words in the soft soil of my heart for over twenty years. That simple statement that erased half of my known identity and created a hole in my soul called “fatherless.” Whatever genetic truth exists unseen beneath my skin my simple reality is that the man who raised me left this earth without ever definitively defending his position and the man now accused of contributing to creation of said offspring has never fully placed me in the position of “eldest daughter.” Whatever demons my mom exercised by speaking those words – I cannot blame her for my response. Whatever fear, lack or personal shame my “father” has or had over my existence – I cannot assuage. I can only tell you – whoever you are who will listen – that the wound is still fresh, the pain is real and there is no salve or platitude that eases the ache. I am not angry but I am a little broken.

 

For those of you who speak into my life or perhaps into the lives of others who are staring down the smoking barrel of similar chaos trying to decide if the burn is simply indicative of being winged or mortally injured, your words, though well-meant, are the soul stinging equivalent of slapping a fresh tattoo. “Your father is the man who raised you.” “God is a father to the fatherless.” “What about so and so who was adopted, the product of rape, parents in jail – it could be worse…” I’m not arguing any of those points – but my reality is that I am one living breathing human who only wants to crawl up into the lap of her papa and feel real arms around me and feel against my cheek the strong heartbeat of a spirit in sync with mine. The only words that would matter would be those gently spoken from the lips of Truth: “my daughter. I love you.” To know beyond doubt that the empty place in my soul – the place called “fatherless” is filled. Instead, I am here, without shelter, without protection. With the expectation from those who might comfort me that I am a grown woman of God and should already be able to speak the scattered pieces back in line because I know I must command the mountain to move. Have you forgotten the foundational manifestation of love? Did you skip the words “He gave….” Am I so unlovable that contact would cause you to vomit in sheer disgust? Or is it that platitudes don’t require an investment of flesh. Lip service, even with God is just that. If the words from your tongue conveyed the love of a benevolent Father I would be swept away by the joy. Instead, here I am once again playing the part of Tammy the terrible warning. Don’t talk. DO.

 

I’m not angry and I’m not picking at anyone in particular. My intent is only to serve as counsel that even though the person in front of you may be a full grown Christian, or a prickly cactus – or both – that does not exempt their basic need for comfort. I do not discount the power of God’s word – but in the heat of battle – for me it will be the touch of another soldier and the words “Fall back. I’ll cover you.” We all battle something and sometimes we all need that very real, very physical manifestation of God with skin on at our side.

 

Peace

 

PS: if you are a family member, before you pick up a phone or a rope – please read carefully what I’ve said and what I say now. I place no blame on anyone but myself for my personal feelings regarding this situation or any situation in my life. I don’t hate you. I’m not mad at you and I’m not slandering you. Whatever peace you follow is yours and this is all I want for any of us. Peace. This post isn’t a callout about you. It is an admonition for those who may read and may consider themselves Christians. That is all it is.  

Posted by: tlboehm | June 17, 2014

Connect the Dots

Perhaps it’s self-induced sleep deprivation, or roundy round responsibilities boredom, or maybe it’s simply that the chili was so much more exciting “in theory” and the gelatinous red reality in my lunch bowl puts my dendrites in “anywhere but here” mode but whatever the reason I’m off on a tangent today.

Three hours of sleep kills filters and linear thought and it will be a struggle to keep this little lamentation going forward but it is that same disturbance in the force that compels me to write in the first place. The skips and blips in the sequencing make sense even though you aren’t up in my head. I hope you are able to connect the dots.

I read the writing of a beautiful soul today. Her name is Kate and I’ve known her for all of my “interwebs social network sojourn” and like so many writers she is passionate, capricious and pretty much unaware of the sheer talent residing between brain and fingertips. She reminded me that I long to tell stories. It’s deeper than a simple passion to create fiction, to transport a soul to a stellar place for a moment or a day. It is beyond my worth or identity as one person on the planet. There is a deeper burn at my core to connect those dots into something beyond now.

My little genealogy habit, maligned by my family and fueled by those heinous shaky leaves, is simply another expression of who I am as writer. It isn’t so much DOB, DOD get ‘er done click mcfamily as it is the story of the life rediscovered.  How sad that a legacy becomes a few scribbled lines on the back of a grimey data sheet, or a tic mark on a census.  I want to know why your mother’s name is nowhere to be found in the remnant electrical ghost of you. I want to know about your twin sisters, the ones that came state side with you – and then disappeared from the scant information I’ve found on the family.

I live in a community where families are still saturated in cultural identities they brought with them four hundred years ago. Yet I, for all my alacrity with technology and my ferreting skills can’t prove the identity of a maternal great grandparent. It disturbs my heart that someone’s little girl, someone’s mother is reduced to a simple granite marker. And so I continue to search. There is always that hope that I will find the story, the human, the life that mattered. And to be blunt – maybe I will find the arc in the storyline to prove that I matter as well.

We are story tellers for so many reasons. Perhaps you are the voice of those who no longer have the opportunity to speak. Write the story, then. No matter how simple it may be now, give it a generation to cure appropriately. It could be priceless for someone else. You may never know the end result and that’s ok. Just write it down…and do it now.

Peace. 

Posted by: tlboehm | June 10, 2014

Mad Coping Skills….NOT

Recently, someone I allow to speak into my life told me I had impressive coping skills. I believe it was supposed to be a complement and since those are few and far between for a battle axe wielding force of nature like me, I took it as such…for a moment.

Last night however, as those damnable chili dogs vied for space in my gut; I fought that disturbing wave of life on planet earth induced, sweaty browed, palpitating, vertigo laced anxiety and I considered the ramifications of “coping skills.” Of all the skills to possess: American ninja warrior, competitive ice cream scooper, power shopper at Costco, coping skills is such a consolation prize for the daily attendance I endure on this spinning blue orb.

Age and gravity encroach on my physical persona in the form of belly fat and pain, and I cope. I try to eat right and move my hulk around only to experience that gnaw of dissatisfaction and additional pain using muscles that just aren’t meant to do what I ask them to do. I get a diagnosis of sleep apnea and I cope by using the Vadermatic 2000 every night, even when it smells like a gym locker, and makes my face puff up like a bloated goat. I’ve traded lapses of breath in the night for chronic burning dry eyes, and neck cramps. I still cope with palpitations (the heart knocks politely now, it doesn’t thrash about in an escape attempt. Progress perhaps) and dizziness and if I consider all the things I “cope with” there is that specter of anxiety poised to pounce…

I try to keep it light by posting a plethora of pith and kitsch on Facebook and click shaky leaves on ancestry as a distraction but still the dreams of my heart are deferred in the face of responsibilities and deadlines and myriad things delegated to me because others simply cannot cope.

I know there’s no such thing as the “Fair” card in this game of 52 pickup chaos and I know there are others out there who cope with crises much worse than my own bland blend of controlled hysteria but the little girl in me is tired of being the adult. I just want the lollipop, the teddy bear, the release. I don’t want more opportunities to develop my “coping skills” I want a reason to rejoice. I want a victory. Here. Now. While I’m still sane enough to encourage others with it.

The real me, not the socially awkward, pleasantly forgettable, middle aged mom/copeep/benchwarmer you see day to day, is a writer, an artist, a musician. A perfect day would involve lavender, and tea in a translucent china cup. A canvas wet with beautiful images, guitar music and birdsong in the background. Poetry and lace on my table. Kind words and a gentle hug…for no reason.  A perfect day would end with order – and completion. The simple satisfaction of knowing that I had the opportunity to create beauty, that I nurtured another soul. This coping only means I don’t ever disconnect from the chaos, the deadlines, the stress, and the displaced raw emotions of others who are just as frustrated as I am with lack, and pain, and fear.

I get what you may be thinking. Tam hasn’t played the “God” card yet. You’re right. There is no answer for that. For the prayers that go unanswered, for the image I keep of a benevolent Father even when I still cry in the shower, or on the way home, or on the way to work – because if I cried anywhere else I’d have to explain the pain He already knows.

And so for the most part I refrain. I get up, show up, and keep it up because that’s who I am. I cope. But success? Not by any definition in my heart am I successful. And that is the thing for which I pray…and for which I am perpetually deferred.

What is the uptake? Don’t cope. Coping sucks. Coping is what we do when we’re too scared, too trapped or too late to make the change we so desperately should have made before the trench we dug with our own small steps engulfed us. I don’t have permission to do anything but cope – but you do. So take it. The saddest moment is never the loss of something or someone else but the loss of yourself and of who you know in your heart you should have been. Grace may be new every day, but opportunity is finite and dreams? They have an expiration date.

Peace. 

Posted by: tlboehm | April 8, 2014

From Victim to Victor

It’s late in the day and I am sure some diminutive gremlin is creating the incessant pounding I feel behind my eye, or perhaps it is the residual throb of too much tax forms and not enough sound sleep. Whatever the cause, I am considering banging my head against the nearest hard surface until I’m senseless. It won’t take but a few good thumps to git ‘er done.

For those of you who might have stumbled upon my rant a couple of days ago, be assured (or frustrated) that this is no retraction. It is merely an extension of my thought. As any bovine, I often ruminate and this cud is just too much to pass through the chambers without a bit more cuspid and spit to soften the effect.

If you missed it, and it’s entirely possible that somewhere betwixt the scream of life and your dendrites my attempt at satire zinged through your orbs as anything but and you stalled out on any number of incendiary phrases (again truth is truth and truth is our filters filter according to the lens of emotions and not necessarily what is true.) you may have missed what I intended to convey. Thus the gnaw I feel in my gut to clarify. I suppose being read and misconstrued is second only to being put on perpetual ignore. (I got kids. Ignore happens)

The truth of the day is: my parents were not “mean and selfish” – that phrase was written for effect. Since my father is no longer on this side of the veil and cannot defend himself I felt prompted to be respectful of his memory. My parents were the perfect storm however, and I was often caught in the elements. To be honest though, until I had kids of my own it never registered that their behavior was any different from any other set of parents and perhaps that is part of the reason I didn’t perpetuate most of the insanity. While I wondered “why” for many years, there was a part of me that was cognizant of truth in its simplest forms – right is right and wrong is wrong and I have never been one to live in the gray area so many are happy to taut as “freedom.”  If anything I understood the gravity of consequence. I wanted my children to love me and knowing that love is a choice, being reasonable increases the odds.

It sounds cliché but hurt people hurt people. My parents didn’t invent any of the emotional or physical torment inflicted on me either directly or indirectly. It was learned. Passed down from generation to generation until it culminated in what could have been a monster of epic proportions: me. While  I make no excuses for their behavior, the more I learn about the trauma of my predecessors, the softer my heart becomes. I am a human after all. The most powerful thing I can do is forgive, and move on. For me, that is the best free will I have at my disposal. I hope that this is my legacy. Truth is, love has the power to take the human heart from victim, to victor. I choose to love my parents. This is my freedom.  

Peace. 

Posted by: tlboehm | April 5, 2014

Are You a Victim?

My name is Tammy and I am a victim. When I was little my parents abused me. I need glasses in school and didn’t get them until I was a teenager because my parents were mean and selfish. As a result, I never learned to play sports so I was teased and bullied by my peers. There wasn’t money for me to go to college so I had to pay my own way which was really hard and I had to work at jobs that were terrible because I am female and I didn’t get paid as much as men who were doing the same thing. I am a victim of discrimination. Now I have been diagnosed with GAD and severe sleep apnea. I eat to comfort myself because of my horrible past and now I am obese. Because I am a victim and overweight my sleep apnea is chronic which makes me worry and escalates my GAD. I can’t exercise because every time I try I am reminded of how I was bullied as a child and it makes me cry. So I go buy a hamburger. I may have an eating disorder and with all the chemicals in the food that make me crave sugar and salt and HFCS I am now an addict to processed food. Life is too hard, so I have decided that I am going to stop using my CPAP machine because it impinges on my right to sleep comfortably. When I go completely insane because I am not getting oxygen to my brain I am going to strangle my child. I’ll tell the cameramen and reporters that I guess I gripped his neck too hard while disciplining him and I’ll have free room and board for the rest of my life. Maybe I’ll write a book and make lots of money and get a law degree because I will be a victim of the system. Or maybe I will go camp out on the bosque and scare bicyclists. Then the police will have to come shoot me for no reason and all of you can come put up a santuario in my memory because I am a victim and no one will help me.
It’s all true you know. I was abused as a child. I didn’t get glasses till eighth grade. I was bullied and teased. I am female. I do make less than my male counterparts. I do have GAD, sleep apnea and I am seriously overweight. I cried yesterday just thinking about doing a Crossfit WOD. And honestly, right now I would love to wrap my pudgy paws around a double green chile cheeseburger. I have every reason to check out of society and be unaccountable for my actions. I’m a free white American. I am entitled. I am privileged. My situation is everyone else’s fault and you can shoulder the consequences when I become homeless and sick. Only thing stopping me are four tiny words: It’s not about me…
Truth is, raw emotion is no filter for truth. Truth either is or isn’t and the truth is we all are accountable not only for ourselves but for others. When we sound off without fact checking, when we accuse without applying the litmus test of transparency we are no better than jackals at a carcass. We the people have championed organizations like the ACLU who quashed a form of a Kendra’s Law here in Albuquerque that would possibly have prevented James Boyd from camping out in the foothills in the first place. How does one propose to assist the homeless mentally ill when those same people are not required to even partake of one’s assistance? Perhaps we do it by protesting the very entities tasked to uphold the laws we helped get on the books? Ah yes, I see that we the free are due to have it both ways because we filter the law through our situational emotional barometer of personal right and wrong which may or may have little to nothing to do with truth. Life is precious and James was sick and cops are mean for using excessive force unless he had raped your daughter and she’s pregnant then you could shoot him and we can’t possibly force an unwanted pregnancy on your princess so we’ll terminate that pregnancy. Cuz it’s its ok to shoot a sick homeless rapist yourself and well everyone knows that children in New Mexico are disposable before and after birth. That’s why Omaree Varela’s mom can spout off with a comment like “I guess I kicked him too hard.” and we can blame APD for that too. Should the officers have used excessive force on her? Would we then have lit candles for a repeat child abuser? We’re doing it for a violent homeless man. Oh but mental illness puts you above accountability. I forgot about that.
Until we register that we are all accountable incidents like those involving James Boyd and Omaree Varela will continue to happen. We can yell at our law enforcement all we want. We can put flowers down. We can cry about taxpayers’ money because God knows we cry about paying taxes again, we want everything for nothing, but until we determine that we are the ones to blame, nothing will get fixed. And there’s only so much carcass to go around before the jackals are gnawing on your prized poodle.
I am responsible for myself. If I choose to play victim, I will always be fat, anxious and sleep deprived. That is my truth. Broccoli sucks. I hate Crossfit. And that CPAP machine is of the devil. But my consequence for my personal discomfort and accountability will be better health, peace, and emotional stamina to truly get out there and make the changes for those who really are disabled or incapable. It’s not enough to be the megaphone for the accuser. We must become the moving hands and feet of change. Pitchforks were designed for moving hay and excrement not brandishing at our fellow humans. Blocking traffic, spitting at cops and wearing Guy Fawkes masks on your head will not facilitate change. Volunteering at a hospital, a shelter, a food pantry – educating yourself on the LAWS that govern us, paying your taxes, showing up for life, yeah, those things – those things will facilitate change. I am not a victim and the truth is many of us do not understand the true meaning of that word.
Peace.
Stuff to google on your own
James Boyd
Omaree Varela
Kendra’s Law
John Hyde

Posted by: tlboehm | March 1, 2014

When Life Lies to Your Heart

There’s that quippy little Facebook graphic that says something to the effect of “we have three lives. Our public life, our private life and our secret life.” Facebook of course being the Akashic Record of kitsch theory I find myself contemplating the awkward dance I do through the hours that form my blurred sojourn to oblivion.

I was perhaps a decade on this planet when my Malibu Barbie spent less time in her Love Van (complete with orange pop out kitchen area) and more time sailing through the sky, communing with pom pom dogs and leaving mod hair Ken in the square pink fold out casa with that creepy toddler from the Sunshine family. At ten years old there was no secret to my life that played out on the frost covered grass of the school yard. First a horse with a blue mane, then a swan (juniper branches down the back of my shirt for wings) a stint as Lucrezia Borgia, and dreams of veterinary practice and an A frame lodge on a quiet lake.   Reality however is a socio path, swinging at the fragile glass surrounding your precious dreams with a titanium alloy baseball bat. And I found my future suddenly pelted over the fence. Just like Barbie, I was incapable of flight without a Deus ex machina. She’s in a box now and so am I.

Sad fact is, life is full of quippy little lies in the form of happy words to live by. If you work hard enough, eat your broccoli, stay in school you can do/be anything you want. If you can dream it you can achieve it. Life is your oyster. Unfortunately those adages don’t divulge the pigeon hole  bubble testing, the demographics of failure, and the toxins in the sweet flesh you’re sucking off the half shell. When you’re finished retching up your toenails and etching your desperation into tiny ovals with your number two pencil you suddenly realize you’re destined for somewhere between mediocre and “ruh roh Raggy” on the bell curve of your limited life span. The summation of your blue maned, evergreen winged destination may be a thousand square feet of flaking adobe, outfitted with one tiny bathroom, variable electrical current and a scourge of junk elms that throttle any plant you attempt to coax from the desert dirt. You’ll find yourself overwhelmed by fifty hours a week of pure chaos crunching numbers to the cadence of behemoths in the next room dropping two hundred pound weights in rapid succession and blasting “Party Like a Rock Star”  ad nauseum. You’ll pray over two grown spawn you can’t afford to send to college, you’ll pray over your ten year old car with the cracked window glass you can’t afford to replace and the tires that always seem to trade off being a little low. You’ll try to blot out the thought that your husband is ten years older than you and your dual scraping for existence isn’t covering any plans for your future.  You’ll dismiss the pain in your thumbs – you’re a desk jockey for God’s sake. The space bar is an extension of you.

And in the middle of it all someone sadly enamored with your petty penned meanderings will witlessly tell you “Oh Em Gee, you’re a writer.” And here I am, picking mental juniper berries off my flesh and whinnying under my breath. My life. It’s no secret I am dissatisfied with coasting through the rest of it on autopilot.  I want the work of my hands to echo the cry of my heart. There are novels on my hard drive. There are poems in my soul. This dance, albeit awkward, is set to music that waits for a hand across the strings, touching the keys, the exhalation of life to give it voice.

In the middle of survival, I simply don’t have the luxury of time to devote to my self-absorbed delusion of writerdom. The only option afforded people like me (which is probably 98% of the creative world) is to either give up and give away that box of Barbie’s – or storm the castle and take the keep by force. Guess where I am? Releasing the catch on the trebuchet. In my hand’s my Barbie’s can fly and I am going over the wall – hanging on to my precious dream for all I am worth. Seriously now. The only thing between this mare and a blue mane is a little bottle of indigo dye from Sally’s Beauty Supply.

Peace 

Posted by: tlboehm | February 22, 2014

The Viking Reloaded

For the one or two of you newbies who may not know me consider this my warning shot across your bow. I am not a “nice person.” I’m not a “God loves you and so do I” bit of Jesus cheese. Of course I am capable of deep empathy for any situation but if a crack on your dome would go further to disengage you from that self-induced death spiral you’re in than a hug and a daisy would – I’m your girl with a Kevlar coated heart and tank piercing ammunition.

Truth is, I don’t need to be your best bud or even know your name to deliver the jolt of reality you need to kill your own dragons in this life. I just need to keep standing. And over the past forty nine years of experiencing all manner of life on this planet, I’ve grown adept at planting my feet either on terra firma or across the hindermost parts of a necessary gluteal target. I only have one enemy and he isn’t you. Any surface tension I create across your resonant hide will only serve to temper your own brand of steel.

Rest assured therefore, should you determine I am read worthy – there will be rants, verbal scourging and occasional evisceration and I make no apologies for it. There is a quantum gap between “happy” and “joy” and my “joy” will only manifest when I’m done. Crispy coating notwithstanding, I can confirm that my center is still raw – and chilly in parts. I don’t have time for “happy” therefore, when “Joy” is at stake.

Contrary to what you may perceive by my feral machinations, I am not prone to moody outbursts. If I’m stating it – I have balanced whatever lack of “couth” or “political correctness” with much rumination, meditation and perspiration at my disposal. I’ve been in the same state for thirty five years, the same marriage and home for twenty three years and the same job for twelve years. I ride no pendulums or wrecking balls or roller coasters. I simply put one flat spiked foot in front of the other and that has served to carry me forward.  Forward focus, rear guard, left right left is the order of the day.

The bandwidth is rife with more bucolic wordsmiths, poetic ephemera, and polychromatic gas emitting unicorns. You won’t get that here on this page. I made peace with my Viking DNA and my bitter ink a long time ago. The way I see it, somebody way better than me already died for you. I’m here to help you take back ground, to help you kill the monsters. Lock and load, baby. Lock and load.

Peace. 

Posted by: tlboehm | February 22, 2014

Not My Reality

Not My Reality

Is it divine dissatisfaction
Or just a chemical reaction
To a system overload
Run the meter to the red
Am I all up in my head
Do I shut it down or implode

Can’t settle for status quo
There’s so much more I want to know
This is not my reality
You can hang by your circumstance
Or cut that rope and take a chance
Could you handle being free

Cyclical day and night
Spinning at the speed of light
Lost in the blur of our lives
This black hole gravity
Has done its work on me
It’s a pull I can’t survive

So rescue me from oblivion
My heart is open to let you in
Change my linear destiny
No more victim of circumstance
Give me grace to take the chance
We were meant to be set free
TL Boehm
02/22/14

Posted by: tlboehm | February 17, 2014

Horse feathers

The day is dissolving into that gun metal colored expanse of high desert sky that tugs at the ghost of my teenage heart, creating that ache of hope crashing against the vast expanse of hopelessness. It’s like a stranding in the horse latitudes* waiting for winds that never come to give me lift, to move me forward.

Truth is, my feet are cramped from sitting on this same perch for so long, if my cage were opened I don’t know if I could achieve flight. I’ve experienced so many extended landings I’m not even sure what altitude is anymore. I used to crave it, the rush…the heady flutter of wings against the fresh air, the warm light and promise of a new day. I’m not sure where I lost it but circular motion will eventually numb your perspective and that is where I am. I’ve been on this same loop for so long I can ride it with my eyes closed. If I were presented with an opportunity for change, would I even register or would I trudge right by, head down and bit in mouth – each foot in the groove the prior steps made. I wonder.

Yet on days like this if I stop for a moment and consider letting that wispy pin feathered thing called hope to flutter within, I feel the lift and I hear that teenage heart cry out “I still want to fly.” Hope is a powerful thing, you know. Given one open door moment and hope will fledge, taking to the skies – new altitudes, new ideas – she will soar.

Who knows how many more extended landings wait for me. Perhaps I am destined for a plethora of wing snapping crashes before it’s all over but oh, that hope for flight. I still crave it. I still believe it is possible. And I’m asking. Open the cage. Bend the bars a little. Flight feathers….they always grow back.

Peace

*Horse Latitudes – latitudes with little wind and warm weather. Supposedly Spanish sailing ships would find themselves becalmed with cargos of ponies for trade and would end up throwing the horses overboard when fresh water supplies dwindled.  There’s probably a cool poem or two there or not. 

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