sipping stardust

he unscrews the lid.
i peer into
the depths of a jar.

we hiked up the bluff
of my childhood haunt
to help fly her home.

mom’s ashes clutched
in dad's palm,
a bottle of wine
in mine.

we take turns talking
about her,
tears choking
syllables
from our sentences

a breathless pause,
we watch her rise 
to a tempestuous wind
engulfing us whole.

i look to dad,
ash matted to face,
sobbing, smiling
both of us standing cliff side
coated in mom.

raising a dusty bottle,
we drank to her love,
her love into us,
sipping stardust.

underneath

"momma, can we go outside? i want to hug the bees. i know they will want to play today. i just know it."
She shot me the, for god's sake not again, look - how many times can a kid get stung before she stops this?
"now sweetie, the bees are very busy and can't understand that you want to play with them. please stay away from the rhododendron and find something else to do."
Like any willful four year old, I sure as hell was going straight for that giant bee-filled bush. I entered into the lush igloo, looking to make sure my momma wasn't watching me. In I sat, beneath the magenta blossoms that swirled in fragrant layers above me. I could hear my momma's voice and smell cigarette smoke, which meant she was on the phone.
I'm underneath, in my own world of right and wrong and no one knows I'm here. Except the bees. And today they will stop to play.
"hi, it's me. will you play with me today?"
With a grin of assuredness, I reached my small hand upward into the canopy of flowers filled with bees of all sizes and kinds. My prowling fingers approached a fat bumblebee dusted in furry pollen. Like a prospector to gold, I carefully plucked the bee from the blossom. Bang, I was shot in the palm and throbbing pain ensued.
Deep within, a fury rose from my stomach to chest, chest to mouth. No, no don't scream Julia or momma will know you are here again and she told you not to. She told you not to play with bees.
Underneath, I listened to the cacophony of their wings as my hand throbbed in unison. My momma laughed in the background and I realized she still hadn't seen me in the forbidden bush. I looked at my hand covered in holes and bumps from previous stings and then at the fresh stinger lodged in it. It hurt so badly. Why wouldn't they play with me?
I closed my eyes, laid down and smelled the grey smoke wafting between branches.
Underneath, I wanted to love and I wanted to play. But it sure did hurt. Tomorrow, I would try again.

middle school dance

cue up —

song, strap in, reverse out.
coffee hot to hand,
to work now.

Grocery store
parking lot, 8am -
construction crews,
parent/toddler:
Destruction view.

lip gloss to face, bass to street.
Drive. Shoulder dance.
Live beats.

you. White truck.
Right there, on a sharp left.
Ladder on top.
Yearn. regret.

closer; closely.
your face. Shuttering.
hands sweat.
Shit. still driving.
Eyes met.

bumper to bumper
awkward dancers,
Middle school madness -
car wipers thumping.

song ends. Silence slips.
Coffee on my lip -
I go. you park.
2 passing ships.

Missing the mark.

an open letter to darkness

On October 29, 2016, I was drugged, raped and physically assaulted on the island that raised me. I went for a glass of wine at 5pm to a local establishment where I was known by name before attending a spooky Halloween play, Darkness Illuminated. I tipped the bartender and drove eagerly to the art center, excited to experience live theatre and see one of my dearest friends perform. The venue was bustling with grinning faces, most of whom I knew, and I mingled happily among them.

When I was introduced to a friend of my friend, I realized something was profoundly wrong with me. I could hear and see everything but my response sat like cement in my head. I couldn’t speak or formulate sentences. Blushing embarrassment painted my face. What the hell was happening? I had been stressed beyond reason with the recent death of my mom and going through the agony of divorce, but how could this be happening – especially in a moment when I was entrenched in public and wanting to be supportive of my friend.

The lights flashed, and I found a seat hoping to recover and reengage in my night out. After 10 minutes, my hearing was also gone – I could see everything happening on the stage but I was completely cut from the audible world surrounding me. I trembled in terror – was I having a complete melt down? Sweat ran down my forehead. I had to escape. I ran to the door of the art center facing the parking lot. I looked into a sea of darkness with cars like beacons of color facing me. 

Where had I parked? I had no memory of parking. God damnit. How could I be this fucked up after a glass of wine? Darkness. Like a short circuit in my brain, I was in my car but no memory of how I found it. Just me suddenly sitting in the driver’s seat in front of Minglement. Pumpkins with faces smiled at me. I was crying. Fuck you Julia. I was so angry at myself. I ran away from the theatre, my friend, and I was fucking imploding. I hated myself in this moment sitting in the driver’s seat of my car, grateful for my car, but I was loathing myself. My last memory of the night. Hating myself for losing control. 7:08pm. Darkness. Silence. Darkness.

When I opened my eyes I was in a bed. Naked. There was a man. Frozen I laid there blinking. In excruciating pain, I blinked more. I remained perfectly still. I felt my breath and I wanted my life so bad. Would I ever see or hold my kids again? I started to panic. But I just blinked. The man moved. I thought about running out the door but I didn’t know where I was, if I was on Vashon, if outside was safer than inside. I wanted my life but somehow it had been taken from me. The TV showed the time on a blue screen. It was 5:37am. I looked at the man. I had never seen him before. I had zero memory of anything past the art center – but how was that possible? I had to make it out of this moment so I could understand why.

I slid to the floor in search of my pants, purse, anything that was mine. Where was my reality? He sat up like he had been awake and asked if I was ok. I begged him to help me get home. I told him I didn’t know what had happened or why I was there. I was at his total mercy. He spoke very little but knew right where my car was and said he would return me there. I collected the rest of my things from around his room. My pants had buttons and the buttonholes were torn through. I got in his car shaking and realized I was in Gold Beach. I felt a sense of relief but I knew I wasn’t safe. I felt ashamed. I hurt. I had double vision. My head pulsed in pain. My left shoulder felt broken. I apologized to him. He told me not to be sorry. I wanted to kill him. But I just kept thanking him in hopes he would bring me closer to my kids.

My car was parked behind the pharmacy in the spot I always park when I go uptown. I shut his car door. I watched him leave into the early morning darkness. I sat in my car alone. I exploded like Beowulf screaming.

My dad. My kids. My friend. They thought I was dead. I disappeared. They were out searching all night in the darkness for me. I had done the unthinkable - I left and didn’t come home. I was so angry at myself. How had this happened? I hated the darkness. I hated that I had no memory beyond sitting in my car by the pumpkin heads. I felt completely at fault – grown adults didn’t do horrible things like this to people they love.

Swedish hospital with my dad followed. Something happened, he knew it and demanded we get answers. Get help with this mystery. A seizure maybe? I was in horrible pain. Battling flashbacks of awakening to the stranger in bed next to me. The nurse took my blood. Rape kit. I saw the bruises on my body. Rape kit. She did too. I shivered. I still couldn’t see. I wanted to vomit. My heart raced.

You’ve been drugged Julia, look at the test results. Drugged? What? What does that mean? Have you heard of date rape drugs – you have one in your system. Drugged. One glass of wine at 5:30pm. Drugged. The darkness – that happens when the drugs take effect. You probably will never remember what happened that night. Maybe that’s a good thing.

A good thing. Someone had released a serpent into my bloodstream and I was consumed whole, inside out. A good thing to be alive, yes. But I knew as the nurse was talking and I put my clothes back on that I would have an epic battle of rebuilding myself. To live through this now that I had my life.

3 years ago, I left home to have a glass of wine in a local establishment and lost my life for 10 hours. I woke up in a man’s bed and I was no longer the Julia I had been for 36 years. I was a victim. I was hurt badly. I couldn’t trust anyone or anything that I had built my life upon. But I had belief. I had believers who saw and never questioned my pain, who brought me to help, who loved me when I felt unloveable. Who didn't let me abandon love.

I learned bad things happen to good people. I knew I wasn’t alone in the darkness so I started sharing my story. And I found many people like myself who had been hurt, hurt in this same establishment, who were silently hating themselves, who had been assaulted years ago and had never felt safe to

verbalize the horror. I found love in these hollows of horror. I felt like my experience wasn’t in vain because I was helping other people unlock avenues of healing.

Together we were shoulder to shoulder marching ourselves and each other out of darkness.

Trauma disconnects us. It beheads us from our heart. Be the light that shines in the face of fear. Believe survivors of violence because your belief makes it possible to reengage and live in a world that has betrayed you. Belief enables healing. Believe survivors and help illuminate the darkness. Thank you to each of you who has held me, believed me, protected me, and loved me through my process of illumination.

Thank you for being the light.

the last hurrah

With breakfast in our bellies, my children eagerly engaged Grandpa in a cutthroat game of Go Fish.  They delighted in my parents coming for a visit to the island and had drafted a tight schedule of activities and adventures for Grandma and Grandpa.  I was washing up the last of the dishes when my mom approached as though holding a mischievous secret.  “Let’s get ready for our lunch date.  What do you think?” Perplexed by her offer, as we had just eaten, I flashed her a curious smile.  We had a long-standing tradition of noon rendezvous, just the two of us feasting and delving into a myriad of conversational topics.  It was sacred mother daughter time so when she called me to court I didn’t so much as question her intentions.

I kissed the heads of those blissfully lost in play and we headed to the car.  Once we sat, my mom grabbed my hand and looked me in the eyes.  “This is the last time I will be able to come and visit you.  Here’s what I want to do darling.  Drive us to the grocery store.  Buy me a bottle of white, buy yourself a bottle of red and we will head to Dockton Park.  I have things I need to tell you.”

Struck in this moment, I realized my mother was dying.  All the talk about cancer, treatments or lack there of, and hospice had not prepared me for the sudden acknowledgement that I would lose my mother.  This was it.  Our last hurrah. 

“You got it momma.”  I wasn’t drinking at the time because I was emotionally at war and alcohol fueled the enemy.  But hell if I wasn’t going to drink with my mother on this day.  In godspeed there we were, 10am in the store buying wine.  No food.  We didn’t have time.  And we marched back to the car and drove straight to the park.

The bitter February rain relentlessly pelted the car.  We parked in the upper parking lot looking out into the gray face of winter.  Raising our bottles, we drank like two queens of the Nile.  Time ceased and the water of Quartermaster Harbor froze before us.  The car erupted with laughter and rich stories, reflections, and gratitude. Everything came flying out of this 35-year-old cornucopia of memories. As we neared the bottom of our bottles my mother was preparing for a last toast.  She went to pour into her paper cup and missed it completely hosing the entire center console in sweet elixir. Tears of hilarity folded us together. Arm in arm, love engulfed us whole. 

Several hours passed.  It was time to take mom home. Like bringing a drunk teenager in after curfew, I snuck her past the watchful eyes of my father and tucked her into bed.  She definitely needed a nap. I lifted the blanket up to her cold hands and put my lips to her cheek.  Tears traversed our faces.  “Sleep well momma.”  Her eyes closed and I stood there marveling at each breath of her body until the sound of my son calling me drew me from the room. 

bad seeds

Sitting on the edge of my daughter’s bed, my face approached hers for a fare well kiss.  Abruptly, she shifted to pierce my weary eyelids.  “Mom, I heard someone was gonna come to the high school with a gun and hurt people.  I’m really scared and I don’t think I can sleep.”

Like any mom, this was alarming on two fronts: I was genuinely terrified that my child was terrified and I was terrified that my child was telling me she wouldn’t be able to sleep.  In that moment, I reached into the depths of my toolbox and there I found a bag of seeds. 

“Mirabelle, I want to share with you a precious gift that was given to me when I was feeling afraid.  So shut your eyes and listen.  Imagine that you are holding a bag of seeds.  In your bag of seeds are seeds that can grow many beautiful things – magnificent flowers of every color and fragrance, ideas that have yet to be imagined, feelings of joy that never leave you.  And in this bag are also seeds that can grow thoughts that will cause you worry and uncertainty.  Seeds that grow thorns and darkness.  Seeds that are exhausting to sow and that can overgrow your other seeds if you are not careful.

So now reach into your bag and pick each seed intentionally.  You decide where each one will grow and what you want to plant.  Place each one slowly and carefully. There is no right or wrong.  Only your intention.

Once all your seeds are planted, pat the ground and water your seeds right before you go to bed.  As you sleep, your seeds will grow.  And when you wake up, you will be surrounded by whatever you have planted and nurtured.”

After a deep pause, her eyes opened into mine. 

“Mom, we have to have bad seeds don’t we?  Because if we didn’t have bad seeds we wouldn’t know what we really wanted or see how beautiful our good seeds are.  I’m always going to plant a few bad seeds but I’m going to put a fence around them so they don’t mess up my garden.”

In that moment, I imploded with reverence for my child’s wisdom.  Yes, we do need bad seeds because they teach us vulnerability, presence, and to love passionately and choosingly. 

I put my lips to Mirabelle’s cheek and wrapped my arms around her as it was time to let sleep take precedence.  Pulling back from her body in the darkness of her room, I saw her small hand reaching into her bag of seeds.  And I knew something amazing was about to grow.

into the deep

Recklessly, I wrangled my winter coat over my pajamas. The light had retired early and the netherworlds beneath a towering stand of Douglas fir were calling. Affectionately known as the “Deep Dark Woods” this nocturnal vaudeville housed a family of Great Horned Owls that my dad had been coveting for months.

Pouring himself a generous glass of scotch, my dad swept the tumbler to his fingers and took my hand in his other.  My heart took to flight and I held tight to his thick palm knowing that anything was game if I let go. Haunting shadows and menacing sounds sparked an imaginative playground in my mind as we ventured further from home and closer to the woods.

There were rules of engagement out here that were never to be tested.  Silence was mandated with an occasional inquisitive whisper reluctantly accepted.  Beneath the giant bows we stood and I couldn’t see anything other than the dark figure of my dad.  “Don’t move kid.”  After a few minutes my dad had spotted an owl and it was crucial that it did not know we were there.  I strained to see anything but layers of darkness only revealed more darkness and I buried my head into my dad’s thick side feeling petrified as only a 5 year old can.

Like a knife cutting through a wizard’s cloak, the magnificent creature pierced the absence of sound nearly knocking us to the ground. A sharp squeal erupted from the forest floor as the bird lifted its prey back to the branches above.  Admiration and remorse swept across my chest, as though I had just witnessed a gunslinger’s shoot out.  Sensing moral conflict, my dad squeezed my hand twice which meant it was time to return to our house.  As we stepped between tangles of underbrush, the glow of civilization returned, as did the breath into my lungs.  I tugged for my dad to come down to meet my chilled face.  “Thank you for taking me to the night daddy.”  I kissed his cheek and he remained silently smiling.