It takes courage to write, especially from the heart. To publish your words. Make yourself naked. Vulnerable to the judgment of others. To their scrutiny. Their cruelty. And ultimately, their rejection.

When you are a writer, you may speak the truth, but society does not value honesty. Or,  writing. Pursuing your art as a writer may actually limit your job opportunities. Your flagrant individuality negatively effects your ability to earn, even though it should be, could be and would be the opposite in a world that prioritizes kindness and compassion over cruelty and judgment. That, however, is not the world we live in. Whether you are a writer or not.  

As a writer, your talent may be real. And, it has innate virtue. But that will not earn you friends. Or, dollars.

Then, there's the problem of interpretation. A reader may misinterpret a writer's words or intentions, or, both. Relatable writing is often not related to a specific individual. Nor should literary work be considered literal. And yet, and yet....

Aptly-named "haters" will only ever see problems. Because, haters don't see themselves as hateful. I wonder what people like that consider love, or loving? I suppose I don't have to wonder. The conditional aspect of every part of a hater's psyche was forged in a sterile environment where love and affection were scarce, setting up a lifetime of approval-seeking behavior. That is how a hater defines love--giving is only possible to those who take. It's no wonder haters are also takers. Users. Abusers. Victims who victimize. Wounded healers.

Chiron comes to mind....

The Dark Triad is now foundational to society. That means society rests solely on the pillars of  narcissism, psychopathy, and Machiavellianism. Self-serving, selfish, greedy, and sociopathic behaviors equal success. Generosity and kindness are only appropriate in the "non profit" sector. Whereas talent falls under the category of the "arts"--words like "artsy" and "eccentric" were created to describe artists. While there are also eccentric billionaires, none are considered artists. Except perhaps for J. K. Rowling.

There is always the fantasy that success can somehow be found through the written word when you are a writer. Not just monetary success, but success in life and love as well. Someone, somewhere is reading your words and not intimidated by your brilliance, not jealous of your talent, but instead, in awe of you and your brain--and not the fact that you resemble Sophia Loren circa 1970 a la the cover of Vogue except, your bra size is a 34-D, not a 34-C. 

Has any beautiful woman ever really found happiness? I'd wager the sad answer is no. Beauty fades. Art doesn't. As long as an artist is making their art, they have purpose. Joy is possible. Love is, too. Even when you are in the most dire of circumstances, you can find light, hope and faith through your art. It is the same with writing. But with more gravity. And, gravitas.

Would you trade a soul for comfort? For a roof over your head? A warm bed to sleep in? Food in your belly? Clothes on your back??? The world has required that of women for centuries, if not millennia. And, not just our own souls either. Does that make us evil then? To desire comfort and care in a cruel world? To want and need protection from the predators that only want to use you, and not keep you??? Husband means farmer, by the way. That's why wives are often compared to cows through analogies about milk and giving it away for free.

There's a reason the word chattel sounds so much like cattle....

I keep waiting for life to bloom and grow. It is, but in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong person from the absolute wrong situation. Lots of "wrongs." Very few "rights." 

And, right on cue, Hannah Arendt leans against my sliding glass doors, smoking a cigarette. She is watching me with that wry smile of hers curling the corners of her aging lips. Her expression is naturally sardonic, but you would expect that from a Jew who survived the Nazis when six-million others didn't. And, from a woman who was sleeping with the enemy--the likely reason she survived in the first place. She is black-and-white, like an old photograph, peering at me through cynical dark eyes as the smoke from her ashy cigarette rises toward the ceiling. A guffaw mocks my pain as she utters, "There is your freedom," nodding toward the woods in my backyard. But if I walk away, it will not be my backyard anymore. I will not have a house. I will not be safe. I will be vulnerable to predators. I will be cold. I will be hungry. So I slink back into the shadows. Like a beaten dog. Slumped over. Head and eyes down. Not really eating or drinking. Afraid to move, or speak, or feel. Learned helplessness is learned after all. Only intelligent dogs understand (and thereby accept) defeat. Dumb ones bite their owner. Pee on purses. And end up feral. Or worse, dead. 

Would that be me, if I accepted Hannah Arendt's challenge? And, if I accepted her challenge, despite my learned experiences in nearly five decades on Planet Earth, do I, too, still somehow have the right to have rights??? Just thinking that makes me hiccup in sarcastic laughter, breaking the silence of the house. Of course, even silence isn't silent anymore when punctuated by the backdrop of a particular white noise worthy of Don DeLlillo's pen.

Rose McGowan's brave heart may be Brave indeed. But, she doesn't look any happier for it, does she? Maybe happiness is a lie, like heaven. Or, hell. Because, if you're not fighting for happiness, what are you really fighting for? And, why??? 

Evil doesn't get punished--it gets rewarded. Laws are written to protect it. Makes me think of the poor trapped Dwarves of Moria in Lord of the Rings writing, "There is no way out," as their final expression of immortal-hope amidst their mortal-hopelessness. Those words were a message for the future, despite the fact that the author had none.

​If nothing else, writing is a hopeful act. Perhaps the words of the observer are lost on the observer as the source of the writing, but those same words may inspire others to open the door to their glass houses. To run into the woods and never look back. To safeguard their bodies as places where potential miracles can and will happen, whether you're ready or not.

Courage means doing what we must despite being afraid. But I'm not exactly sure that exhaustion counts as cowardice.  

#BraveHeart

You have been my friend for a long time. Even in Death, you find a way to be there in those moments when I need a witness, or a smile, or, both. You're the first person that comes to mind so often, it's as though you're still here. Perhaps it's better to say that you never left....

When I feel alone, your voice comes through. It's your way of letting me know you're here. It's your way of letting me know I'm here, too.

It's 4:44am. Angels are among us. You are one of them. Though I often refer to my long silken-wings, today, I feel very human. And so, very scared. 

There's an animal living between the walls in my house. It stays quiet during the day, but in the wee hours, when the world is still dark--like now--there is rattling, humming, scratching, and movement of all varieties. I don't know why I haven't done anything about it yet. Maybe I like knowing there's another living creature here. It's comforting in some way. Less lonely, though I'm never alone anymore. The benefits of outer beauty.

Inner beauty is better. I have both. However, it is the rare few who can see beyond the surface. More's the shame. 

Miracles have been on my mind of late. Isn't it odd how a miracle can be seen as a curse by humans? I sit here wondering how these creatures have been able to remain on the planet for so long. What you and I know of existence makes us outsiders to them. Threats. It's why you left. Yet, it's also why I'm still here, isn't it?

So strange to be so powerful, yet have no power at all....

What happened to me, my friend? 

I so wish you could do more than just show me your sympathy-face...though, I greatly appreciate seeing it. Getting sympathy is not something I often feel from living people. I suppose it's absurd for me to expect it. They're still here. Still trapped by their physicality. The physical world is maya--cosmic illusion in the old language. Like water, we can't see beyond the murky surface. I can. But even when I do, it doesn't change my course. 

I play along with the fools of this world because it amuses me. Like playing with my food. They are the unwitting entertainment. The dancing clowns.

I've always liked clowns.... 

Tattoos are dead giveaways. Revealing more than the wearer often understands. True predators don't have any. Nothing masks fangs better than nakedness. When you've actually walked with angels, you don't need to etch it into your skin. Because, it's etched into your soul. 

"Imparo ancora," echoes through time, causing the thin curtain between worlds to ripple a little. 

I am still learning as well. I can walk among the humans for 40 more years, and never stop learning. Not about them. About me. Who I really am. What I really want. As an individual. Not as part of the fabric of the Universe. Not as an angel, Or a god. Not as a woman. Or, a man. But whatever it is that makes up the eternal fire at my ember-core. 

The rain falls like sheets outside. A grey shroud surrounding me. Even the giant ever-greens below look grey. It almost feels like a cleansing. Or, a rising tide. Perhaps it's warning of a flood? Change happens in a split second, after all.

Fertilization happens in a split second, too. After a week or so, the blastocyst forcefully burrows into the uterine wall--a violent and bloody process, like a hostile take-over. Or, an infestation. Just like that poor animal in my wall. Seeking shelter--protection--in order to ruthlessly multiply. Merciless in its pursuit to exist.

Existence only becomes a right after war. But war is just another kind of fairy-tale. Another kind of lie. There are no winners after a battle. Only losers. Like the needy party in a one-night stand wanting to cuddle with a perfect stranger. Sad. And, pathetic.

Fairy-tales are no different than tall-tales. Things we hope can happen but never do. And, never will. Not outside of my pen, anyway. It's too bad, too. I like fairy-tales. And, fairies.

I met a lovely couple at the stone circle this year. We spoke of fairies. The taller one, Tom, thought fairies were evil. I laughed. Magical thinking...human psychology has always fascinated me. The full moon was two days later; it was the first time in 120 years that it was in perfect alignment with the stone circle. The very next day, not more than 60 miles away, I felt it. Change. 

Maybe fairies are evil....

Nature doesn't lie. Neither do numbers. But people do. We have to. To survive. 

It's all about perspective. Sunrise is later at a 45-degree latitude. Even across the ocean, a 52-degree latitude brings the sun hours earlier. More light brings more productivity. More joy. Less anxiety. Less depression. At least, during part of the year. The other part is darker. Always a balancing act. Like love. And, sex.

Excuses in love or sex are mere justifications for underlying apathy. Those who speak them, reveal their own self-loathing, insecurities and lack of self-esteem. Just like with tattoos. Inky evidence of individual vulnerability.

Destroyers are full of excuses. Reasons why they can't or won't be there. Narcissism is all about victimhood, you see. While victimhood is a choice--victimization isn't. There's a difference. A big one.

#Veil

Hello, dearest readers...did you know there are now millions of you coming here from 139 countries, territories, islands, and peninsulas??? More than 52,000 individuals come to this site each and every day. Why? Because, when we gather here, we are stronger. More hopeful. We know we're not alone. And, you're not....

We share the same light. We all want better lives. We all want to defeat things like self-sabotage and other psychological traps that hold us down and back from meeting our full potential. We all want to be successful, happy and live with joy. We are solution-seekers. We choose compassion over judgment, kindness over cruelty and love instead of hate. If you are not here for those reasons, maybe you should be. Maybe you want to be. And that's really why you return. You want to be better. You want to raise yourself and others up. Perhaps you're just not sure you're worthy of things like real love, peace and joy?

Take heart if you see yourself in my words. If you feel isolated and alone, if you feel overwhelmed by the darkness all around you...you have come to the right place. There is always light, even in the night sky. High above the clouds, balls of fiery light pierce the darkness. On the other side of our world, our own Sun shines so bright, she gives us all light, warmth and life itself. We are actually made up of that same fire. Atoms from exploded stars helped create our very bodies. Though Earth's gravity can certainly weigh us down in more ways than one, we are 100% part and parcel of not just our galaxy, but of our ever-expanding Universe. If you go into nature and see that all things have a purpose, you must then also see that you have a purpose as well. Except, for humans, purpose is often overshadowed by social and economic hardships. We feel less valuable when others don't recognize our individual value. But, our individual value has nothing to do with what others think of us. Our value has nothing to do with what others are willing to pay us either. Our value is intrinsic. Like our Sun. Or the stars in the sky. Like the flowers. The wind. The great oceans. We have as much right to be here and as much purpose as anything we see around us in the natural world. 

Does the Sun decide not to shine? Does she get depressed and wonder why she burns and burns and burns? No, the Sun is just here. She shines because it is what she is made to do. You are here, too. And, if you are here, you are made to shine as well. For humans, that's usually through our art, or how we help each other. We are all connected through the great web of humanity. We cannot see how we are connected as individual strands of that web. But one day, we will be allowed to take a step back. When we do, we will see the intricacy of that web. We'll better understand how the soul we connected with over 3,000 miles away and across an entire ocean was actually woven right next to us. Physical distance is an illusion. But as physical beings, we still have to cross physical distance--move through physical space. Except, we are not just physical beings, are we? 

Look at the natural beauty in the pictures below. Stepping back from the mountainside allows us to see the full landscape. But the individual tree cannot see how it functions within the full view. Each molecule that makes up the sea is unaware that it is part of the sea. As part of the sea, it can change the surface of our planet, give life, and, take it away. As a molecule by itself, it can do nothing. We are the same as those water molecules, as the individual tree on the mountain side. When we join together through our shared light, we become as powerful as the sea, as imposing as a mountain. Not just in the physical sense, but through our shared positivity. Through joining together to make ourselves and our world a better place. Not because someone is paying us to do so. Not because it means we will go to heaven when we die. We want to make ourselves and our world better because it's the right thing to do. Not just for us individuals, but as part of the great interconnected web of humanity. Basically, we strive for betterment because we can. It's a choice. We don't have to. We want to. That's true power....

You are beautiful. You are worthy. You have value. You have purpose. Every single one of you. From 139 countries around our great planet. Millions of souls. Connected. Here. Perhaps we cannot see how all of our individual strands are connected, but we can feel that connection. I feel it. And I also feel your pain. Your fear. Hear your prayers. Know you want a better life. An easier life. A more productive, successful life. And, you shall have it.

You are light. You have the power to make your hopes, dreams and wishes manifest in your physical reality. Physical change requires physical movement. You must take steps toward that success. If you do, it will happen. Success is always incremental. It's an accumulation of small, consistent efforts over time. Never give up or give in. Just keep dreaming, wishing, and hoping. Keep moving forward toward those dreams. See it. Feel it. And you will one day be living the life of your dreams. No talking yourself out of it either! I will not let you. I will push you to see through what you started. Even if we've never met, I'm with you, holding your hand. Can you feel it?

Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. I'm there. With you. Wherever you are. You are not alone. And never have to be again. 

Remember who you are. Like the Sun, you are an important part of our Universe. Your unique light is meant to shine. You are meant to shine. 

I believe in you! But you must believe in you, too. That's when miracles happen. And, you are one of them....

#Fierce

​*All photos Copyright 2018 Rebecca Housel

In Irish, the words "mo gra" mean "my love." And at some point in 2019, I'm releasing a chapbook of poetry titled, Mo Gra, written entirely in Irish or Gaeilge. While I'm shite at pronunciation, I can read and write...Irish is one of the many languages I somehow know. As if by magic. Though intuitive memory is probably a more reasonable reason. The poetry has been flowing from my soul since I arrived. It naturally comes out of my pen in full Gaeilge, and I don't really know why. Perhaps it was my meeting with an angel. Or, perhaps it was my time in the Highlands. I have a feeling it was both.

The picture is mine, not taken in Ireland but in Scotland this very month. What you're looking at is the Scottish Highlands, snapped on my way to Glencoe. While the views were breathtaking, it was when I impetuously pulled off the tiny road and got out of my rental, hiking poles in hand, that I really felt connected to the land itself. 

Unlike Ireland, which felt like home from the moment I stepped off the plane--the place where I found my joy, my love, my happiness, and my laughter--Scotland wasn't a country where I'd been born before. Albain offered safety, protection and peace. A path to learning and light. The sprawling green landscape still beckons to me. Like the grave that calls me back to New Orleans over and over and over again. The one surrounded by names and dates that belong to people I know today. 

I watched the sunset over the Highlands, standing in a marshy bog I'd wandered into during my wild western foray. I was a Highlander then, too. Standing alone in the warm orange glow. There can be only one, after all. In that moment, I couldn't imagine leaving such a place. It was as if my legs had grown long roots into the Scottish soil while watching my fiery mother drop low in the sky behind the peaks and valleys surrounding my spirit. 

On my way back to Ireland, I drove along the Alban coast, skirting the Irish Sea. Once again, a quick pull off the road allowed me to hike down to the beach through the tall grass and wild roses. Amongst the lichen-covered black rocks dotting the sandy beach, I found abandoned shells bleached white by the sun. The watery waves called to me, inviting me to baptise myself. I am Irish, but I am Scottish now, too. I am many things. A "real American," with lots of different cultures and ethnicities providing the programming for my DNA. But no matter the packaging in the perennial rising with each new spring of my infinite existence, my soul remains the same. I am the same. That's why I remember. I hope you can, too.

Before I left for Scotland, Irish eyes smiled at me from across the room. The familiarity of the soul shining through those eyes moved my feet. The Arch-angel, Michael, told me three years ago in the field where I have also walked with stags and wolves, that he would see me again, but this time, as a man. A beautiful man. I knew him before I knew him. 

"What does this one mean?" I asked, studying the intricacy of the tattoo-art trailing down the muscles of his left arm.

"It's the Arch-angel, Michael, defeating the devil."

Indeed, I believe he has....

#MoGra