Ask. Seek. Desire. Expand. Move. Feel. Be.

There she is. . .
The one who loves too hard, feels too deeply, asks too often, desires too much.
There she is taking up too much space, with her laughter, her curves, her honesty.
Her presence is as tall as a tree, as wide as a mountain. Her energy occupies every crevice of the room.
There she is causing a ruckus with her persistent wanting. She desires too much happiness, too much alone time, too much pleasure. She’ll go through brimstone, murky river, and hellfire to get it. She’ll risk all to quell the longings of her heart and body. This makes her dangerous.
She is dangerous.
And there she goes, making people think too much, feel too much, swoon too much. She with her authentic prose and a self-assuredness in the way she carries herself. She with her belly laughs and her insatiable appetite and her proneness to fiery passion.
Too loud, too vibrant, too honest, too emotional, too smart, too intense, too pretty, too difficult, too sensitive, too wild, too intimidating, too successful, too fat, too strong, too political, too joyous, too needy—too much.
She should simmer down a bit, be taken down a couple notches.
Someone should put her in her place.
Here I am. . . with my too-tender heart and my too-much emotions.
A hedonist, feminist, pleasure seeker, empath.
I want a lot—justice, sincerity, intimacy, actualization, respect, to be seen, to be understood, your undivided attention, and all of your promises to be kept.
I’ve been called high maintenance because I want what I want, and intimidating because of the space I occupy. I’ve been called selfish because I am self-loving. I’ve been called a witch because I know how to heal.
And still, I want and I feel and I ask and I risk and I take the air that fills my lungs.
I must.
We are so afraid, terrified of her big presence, of the way she commands respect and wields the truth. We shame her for her wanting, for her passion.
And still. . . she thrives.
She is me, she is you, and she is loving that she’s finally, finally getting some airtime.
If you’ve ever been called “too much,” or “too emotional,” or “bitchy,” or “stuck up,”. . . I implore you to embrace all that you are—all of your depth, all of your vastness; to not hold yourself in, and to never abandon yourself, your bigness, your radiance.
Forget everything you’ve heard—your too much-ness is a gift; oh yes, one that can heal, incite, liberate, and cut straight to the heart of things.
Do not be afraid of this gift, and let no one shy you away from it. Your too much-ness is magic, is medicine. It can change the world.
Ask. Seek. Desire. Expand. Move. Feel. Be.
Make your waves, fan your flames, give us chills.
Please, rise.
We need you.
**** this is an edited version of author Ev’Yan Whitney’s work. I took the liberty of my own emphases, like she told me too. Thank you, Ms. Whitney, and right back at you.

Time to Grow Up, America.

Remember getting dumped when you were 22? I had completely forgotten what it was like. To be blindsided by the utter and incomprehensible failure of the relationship that you were so wrapped up in, so invested in, so sure it was going to last for the rest of your life, that you hadn’t even considered the possibility that it could end. It inevitably did though, because 22-year-olds….and it felt like the life was kicked out of your guts and sucked from your heart. Your brain scrambled to process it, and you drank heavily to avoid that from happening, because how can one make sense of a heartbreak so raw, so unexpected, and so final. How can my brain be expected to process the fact that two Tuesdays ago America dumped me.

This is how I feel, and if this analogy has legs they are standing on the fact that America is a proverbial 22-year-old. Young and empowered by a college education filled with sex and whiskey, privilege disguised as knowledge and job prospects for a select few that make it seem like things are in good shape. An economy that from a university town looks functional, and an apartment in a newly gentrified neighborhood which makes it seem like our cities have progressed.

It’s tough to put myself back together because I really thought we had something special. Our relationship was founded on the principal that all men, and I thought women, were created equal. That these truths would be self-evident, and that together we would pursue life, liberty and happiness. I know America wanted that too. The problem, is that now I also know that in all the time that we were together, there was a part of America that didn’t see me as an equal at all, that didn’t see progress as positive, that didn’t see certain lives mattered, and that didn’t see that love is love. That hurts.

So, we have a lot of shit to sort out. America has some growing up to do. Americans have deep-seated prejudice, systemic racism, sexism and xenophobia to take responsibility for and to work through, together. That will take years of therapy, marching in the streets, drinking, strong leadership, and ideally some kind of group therapy. Call me crazy, call me a hopeless romantic, call me in general because I am not ok and I want to talk about it, but I love this country too much to let it, or it’s fundamental values get away.


Times They Are A Changin’

I have been listening to a lot of Bob Dylan lately. It began with the award of his Nobel Prize in Literature. I have always loved Bob Dylan for his words. That he makes them into music only makes it better for me. I have always considered him one of my favorite poets so i was confused by the negative backlash towards the announcement. Yes, i understand why writers want writers and poets want poets. Why women wanted a woman to win. We champion our own kind, it’s natural, we associate with them. We know the challenges, the hours put in, the sleepless nights, the feelings poured into and the feelings put aside, in order to create the labor of love that is writing. But didn’t Dylan do all of that?
Then, Hillary Clinton lost the Presidency to Donald Trump. I needed more Dylan. A lot more Dylan. No time for vinyls. Just Bob Dylan on digital repeat.
“For the loser now will be later to win,” Dylan said.
And he might as well have been talking about Trump. The president-elect’s message was clear. His actions on camera, repeatedly, leave no room for doubt. He does not respect women, immigrants, the disabled, he does not respect himself, in my opinion, and he doesn’t respect seemingly anyone else. He is a loser, and now he has won. Dylan also wrote that, “I was taught and brought up, to the laws to abide. That the land that I live in, has God on its side.” And likewise was I. So, I will accept this President just like Dylan said to, bravely.
Now, today is Veteran’s Day. Which makes me think of my grandfather and so many heroes who fought and still fight through dark, dark hours for human rights and the end of tyranny, to beat the nazis and towards steps that allowed women to get the vote in the middle east. Today’s home front though, it calls for new heroes. Our blacks feel their lives don’t matter. Our women feel like second class citizens. Our immigrants feel the door will soon be slammed behind them. Our muslims feel terrified of religious persecution. Our Native Americans are fucking furious, rightfully, 500 years later.
We must salute the troops and their families and deeply honor their sacrifices. And we must push for a future where we can still make a difference in human rights around the world. We can start by fighting for them here at home. These times they are changing.