Don't worry... I fixed the panel myself

 I am the necessary interference…

The harmonic anomaly…

Tonight, as I sit to write, I think about all of my NOW moments.
I think back to sitting here one year ago, three years ago, five years ago, ten years ago… shall I keep going?

The woman I was ten years ago was so confused. I was definitely on autopilot. I pushed myself hard to get a grip. I was exactly where I thought I wanted to be, but something was off. So off the electric company could have been paying me—the switch was tripped.

What do you do when the lights go down?

I waited. Patiently.
I could always feel in my soul that something big was happening. I just didn’t know what that something was. I was thankful for what I had and I made the most of it.

The woman I was five years ago was terrified.
Just a year prior, I had married the man who consumed every part of me... from conversations with people who didn’t give a shit to daydreams and aspirations. I lived and breathed nothing but him.

I should have been standing in an ocean of elation.
Instead, I realized that saying I do changed nothing.

He would stare at the ring on his finger and mutter about how special he felt that someone would choose him. I had always chosen him. He didn’t always choose me. He still fought to win, not to understand. He still stomped around like a toddler who didn’t get his way. He still said some of the cruelest things to the person he claimed to love.

Nothing had changed.
And I was afraid I had made a terrible mistake.

But I waited.
Some of the best wines get better with age. A wing and a prayer…

The breaker wouldn’t stay on.

Three years ago, the woman staring back at me in the mirror finally said, You deserve to be happy.

So I went looking for the things that made me happy. I realized I had placed all of my eggs in the basket of him... of us. I stumbled into an opportunity to hang my art in a gallery and worked for months preparing for it.

On the day of the opening, he stole that too.

I sat on my deck, smoking a cigarette, about to leave early. My parents were taking the kids so I could participate in my own life. He showed up just before I finished... armed with excuses, explaining why I shouldn’t be mad.

He made it.

I listened to him manipulate the truth, and this time my eyes were wide open. Every other time this had happened flashed before me. He had been spinning stories like this for eons.

I felt gullible. Foolish.
How did I not see this before?

The circuit was fried.

Still, I waited. I assumed it was me. Maybe motherhood. Maybe I couldn’t focus. Maybe I couldn’t communicate clearly.

I pulled my energy way back... not because I wanted to. I wasn’t built for that. When I love you, I love the f*ck out of you. I often restrain myself, afraid I’m too much.

My dad has a saying: “The worst kind of alcoholic is the one with a head full of AA and a belly full of booze.”
That was me. A head full of understanding and a blown panel of fuses.

The woman I was a year ago wasn’t surprised.

If I’m honest... even with all the hurtful things he did and said at the end... I know it had to happen that way. He had to be the disrupter. The one who caused the system I had been operating under for 27 years to revolt.

And I was grateful.

I was scared.
But I was free.

Today, as I write to whoever reads these words, I understand this: everything is frequency. Everything is a symphony. When all chords... even the ones that sound like nails on a chalkboard... are played long enough, they find other chords and create harmony.

And when harmonies meet somewhere out in the universe, they create the most beautiful symphony you’ve ever heard.

Nothing is a mistake.
Nothing is right or wrong.
Every possibility is a strike of the string of life, aiming to become part of the whole.

And I understand now:

I am the exact dissonance this symphony was missing.

Every avenue, wave, frequency, chord would have brought me exactly here... just as I will ride out of here in whatever shape or fashion comes next.

There is no right or wrong.
Just chords bumping into each other.
Chords tethering. Tying.

Chords freeing and releasing...

My lights are on.
I fixed the panel myself.

           Poem 1246

“The minute I heard my first love story

I started looking for you, not knowing

how blind that was.

Lovers don't finally meet somewhere.

They're in each other all along.”

—Rumi

Burn the Map!

Ah! A new year…

12 new chapters…
365 new chances… (I saw that on NYE… Totally stolen goods.)

Burn the map.
Life isn’t what you thought it was.

Yet here I am… spiraling in my past, examining every detail, trying to unearth the one answer that explains why I’m sitting here, where I am, and not where I thought I’d be. I thought I took all the correct steps. I thought I took all the right turns.

Instead, I kept adding more grief and shame to my bullshit sandwich with each discovery.

I’ve decided that this is the year I cut that out of my life.

Maybe I wasn’t made for straight lines.

It started with a handful of memories. Moments where my ex would casually bring up my “faults.” The ones I was already hypersensitive about. Dropped at random times, almost as if to remind me that I was damaged goods. Not quite right. Not perfect.

I learned to operate from that sense of self he so graciously handed to me.

Oh, I couldn’t possibly do that.
Be that.
Enjoy that.

Because I had extra hair on my body. Or a flat ass. Or “mosquito bumps” for breasts. Too many children. A faulty communication style. I did everything wrong.

My mind spiraled, briefly brushing up against all the things I could have criticized about him but never would. Because that would have been cruel. Hateful. Pointless.

So why did I accept it from him?
Why did I believe it was okay?

I did everything in my power to change myself to make him happy… and caught myself, just last week, still doing it. Still trying to be acceptable. To him.

I changed my clothes four times in a row, making sure every perceived flaw was hidden from the world. And in the end, what stared back at me in the mirror wasn’t really me at all.

What he did wasn’t accidental. It was a control tactic… one designed to keep me small, self-loathing, and disconnected from who I truly am. I think he believed that if he could dim my light, I might stay in the ditch with him. That way, he wouldn’t have to be alone.

Misery loves company.

I started noticing it in my daydreams. Those little glimpses of a future life. Every possibility bumped into his imagined disapproval.

He wouldn’t want me to do that.
He’d start an argument over that.
He’d make me feel terrible for wearing something like that.

As if his opinion of me still mattered.

What is this even about?

I thought I was healing. Letting go. Moving forward.

So where was this coming from?

And then it hit me like a ton of bricks.

Yes, I am healing.
Yes, I am letting go.

But for twenty-seven years, my identity was intertwined with this man. He was my mirror. My witness. My measuring stick.

And my brain… my subconscious… is still running old programs in a brand-new life.

It’s like trying to tighten a screw with a wrench. When you’ve been programmed the same way for nearly three decades, it takes time to learn new tools. To exchange how you see, how you move, how you operate.

Subconscious reprogramming starts with nervous system regulation. I need to feel safe in this new life. I need new patterns. New thoughts. A new mirror… one that belongs to me.

A new witness.
Maybe that witness is only myself.
And the Universe.

A new measuring stick that says, Baby, you’ve always been enough. Always.

I have to stop choking down that old sandwich… the self-blame, the belief that I must keep carrying the burden of fault… when there are clearly patterns of manipulation woven into this story.

Now, when these old thought patterns surface, I meet them differently.

Ah, I say. This is a reorientation moment.

Because the question underneath it all keeps circling back to one thing:

If he didn’t exist at all…
what would this moment be about?

What would I say to myself?

So I wear the dress that shows off my curves… because I like it.
I skip leg and butt day because I’d rather watch a movie with my kids.
I don’t shave my legs every day because it gives me more time in my life.
I do what will bring me joy, right now, this moment without thinking for one second if he would approve.

And my peace is now intentional… not something I maintain for survival.

I get to be the cartographer now.

I don’t have to follow societal expectations or inherited ones passed down through generations. The roadmap is aflame, and I’m warming my hands by the fire.

I am being witnessed by life itself.

And I know it delights in me.

Turn Right 500 Feet from Here...

What I truly want to place in your hands,

beloved,

has no shape.

There is no jar to hold it,

no sentence to ferry it from my heart

into yours.

Still...

I keep cupping my palms

as if light might finally agree

to sit still long enough

to be delivered.

You ask me

which turn to take,

what words to speak,

how to stop your heart

from arguing with itself.

And I smile,

for I know that secret ache:

the map you want

is folded somewhere

inside your own breath.

I cannot unfold it for you.

God knows... I’ve tried.

I’ve spent lifetimes trying.

But every time I lean close

to hand you an answer,

it dissolves into incense,

and all you smell

is your own longing.

So I point instead.

Here,

five hundred feet from this moment,

turn toward the place

where your courage stirs.

Then walk

until you hear

your soul knocking

from the inside.

Do not ask me how to open that door...

you were born with the hinges

already in your bones.

Yes, I know...

it is strange that so many

wander to me for counsel

as if I am some lantern

that has figured out

how to tame the dark.

I laugh sometimes,

because I am only learning

a half-step ahead of them.

And some days...

not even that.

But I do know this:

Every time I try to give

what cannot be given,

Love leans in

and whispers,

“Beloved…

your presence is already enough.

Your gentleness is instruction.

Your listening is a balm.

You guide best

by never pretending

you know the way.”

So I sit beside you

in the dust of this world,

offering nothing

but my company

and the quiet faith

that the path

will glow beneath your feet

the moment

you dare

to take the next step.

And somehow...

that becomes the gift

I could not give

by any other means.

~Mme. Pamela McCreight~

(The gal who was incredibly inspired by The Great Sufi Master, Hafiz)

The Mountain Rumbles When It Moves...

This morning, my coffee maker let out its usual stretch… that low, contented “Om” as it finished brewing. The sound felt ancient, like the world humming its own awakening.

My new deck faces east now instead of west, and somehow that small shift says everything.

I watched the sun rise and light up what’s left of the forest in my backyard, the leaves are nearly done falling. I stepped onto the deck barefoot, coffee in hand, breathing in the crisp reminder that life keeps going… growing… no matter what we’ve shed.

Later, I jumped on the scale after a long, needed shower. It claims I weigh less than I have since high school. And it feels true… not just in my body, but in the interior design of this vessel. I am lighter inside.

At the counter, journal open, pencil ready, I chose truth. Only truth now… even when it trembles.

I’ve been reading through old journals, through the lies I told myself in the name of hope. For decades I wrote that it was just a season… that soon the leaves would fall, the land would rest, and spring would arrive right on time. I used nature’s cycles as camouflage, pretending the pain was purposeful growth. But the truth? I was protecting myself from the reality I refused to face… what I was intentionally living through in the hallowed name of love.

It’s hard to let go like the trees do… to live bare, exposed, fully in truth. But I’m learning.

In today’s world, it feels almost revolutionary to go through a breakup or divorce and still seek an honest understanding of what love really is. We talk about love as though it’s a possession… something to have or to hold. Or to ditch and forget. But love isn’t a thing. It’s a current. A frequency. It’s not a person or a promise; it’s an energy we move within when we’re brave enough to act from truth instead of fear.

A while back, I had dinner with a friend I’ve grown fond of. She told me about her divorce…and how she and her ex-husband still hold love for each other, still take time to care towards each other. I teared up, envious for a moment, wishing my own story had that kind of softness. How much easier it might be for my children if friendship could exist between us. But I had to reel myself back to truth…we were never truly friends. There hasn’t been enough distance between old patterns and new boundaries. Maybe someday, but maybe never. And that has to be okay.

I’ve traveled through every ache I once called love. I’ve owned my patterns, the ones that kept me hoping someone else would someday see what I saw…that maybe he’d finally recognize in himself what I already knew, and meet me there. When he left, then asked to come back just months later, his words told me everything: “I miss how you make me feel.”

It was never about me.
It was never about us.

The promises, the words, the dreams he painted…they were stories built on shifting sand. I used to believe I was the foundation. Now I see I was the builder, pouring my energy into walls that couldn’t stand.

I grew up in the Presbyterian church. Sunday school every week. Sometimes we’d sing for the congregation… I still remember one song about a wise man building his house upon the rock. I think about that now, realizing how I’ve come full circle.

Because here’s one of the hardest truths I’ve ever had to swallow:
I am the pattern.

The forgiveness.

The “turn the other cheek.”

The check out on myself to make others more comfortable.

It’s scary to admit that…to wonder if I’ll always believe what people tell me instead of what I already know. But even in that fear, there’s a gift. Because here is my truth:

In nearly every relationship I’ve ever had, I felt the love and magic. The spark, the frequency, the wonder. But what I’m realizing now is that it may never have been reciprocal. The love and magic were always mine…emanating from within, not reflected from without.

So maybe what I’ve been searching for this whole time is, in fact, inside of me. Maybe I’ve always carried what I was craving… the belonging, the tenderness, the validation. The little fat girl just wanting a friend. The twenty-something woman learning the difference between desire and devotion. The midlife woman praying not to become another cliché of loneliness (think Cats… and a lot of em.)

But I am not lonely. I am awakening.

I can feel the shift inside me…an ancient fault line stirring, pushing mountains of truth into the light.

This season of letting go feels different. It’s softer. Rooted. Real.
No fear. No masks. Just truth.

Sure, maybe I could have hung on a little longer. But to what end? When would I have mattered? I get to decide that now.

And that decision…that moment of reclamation…screams freedom to me.

Freedom laced with love.
Love not borrowed or bartered.
Love finally my own.

I am the mountain rumbling awake.
I am the fault line shifting.
And beneath it all, the earth hums back:
Welcome home.

In the Smallest of Spaces...

Lately, joy has been arriving in the smallest of spaces… the ones I used to overlook.

This morning, I stood at my kitchen window, coffee steam rising from my cup and warming my nose, and watched as the last of the golden leaves let go. Some drifted lazily, dancing their way to the earth, while others launched themselves boldly like torpedoes toward their ending. I smiled at their bravery and their grace, thinking that maybe life asks us to do both… to dance when we can, and to leap when it’s time.

I’ve been unpacking lately… not just boxes, but pieces of myself. In the corner of my office, tucked away in old cardboard boxes, I found my CD, cassette, and record collection. I hadn’t touched them in years. Dust rose like memory as I opened each case, remembering who I was when I first pressed play.
Last night, I set up my old stereo, stacked five random albums, and let them spin. The room filled with music and nostalgia and the sound of my own heartbeat. It was glorious… not because anything “big” happened, but because it reminded me how alive I feel when I reconnect with the forgotten pieces of myself.

Recently, I found a letter I had written to my future-self months ago… a love letter, tucked away in my “Space for New Things” box. I had completely forgotten about it. Reading those words today felt like a hug from an earlier version of me… a woman who believed in my strength even when I didn’t. She told me to keep going. She told me I was enough. She reminded me that healing doesn’t always roar… sometimes it whispers through music, light, and falling leaves.

And I’ve noticed something unexpected: these tiny moments of rediscovery are regulating something deep inside me. When I pause long enough to feel the texture of an old album cover, or watch a leaf spin in the morning air, my breath slows. My body softens. It’s as if my nervous system finally gets the message that it’s safe to be here… that joy can live alongside calm.
There is so much joy hidden in forgotten spaces… in the bottom of a box, in the melody of an old song, in the quiet courage of a leaf that lets go.

And maybe that’s where joy has been waiting all along… not in the grand gestures or the long-awaited answers, but in the small, still places where we finally remember to look.