Father’s Day

I struggle with certain “holidays”. Father’s Day is one of those days. It’s not that I don’t feel love and compassion for my dad in his lifetime as Vincent Archuleta. In fact, I find that my own level of compassion for the struggles of real life is usually so high that I tolerate ridiculous behavior from others, usually for entirely too long. I can’t help it, I’m an empath and a healer. Meaning, rather than running from “red flag’s” like so many others, I tend to want to run up the stairs of a burning building. It’s also the lifetime’s of a soldier in me.

I have a friend who is heavily into “positive living”. She’s often spread the word of not frowning at life, but smiling instead. This message has a valid place in the world, sure. It’s the shaming I’ve felt aimed at me in particular at times, that makes me see red. This person has no idea what kind of life I have lived. And she has no place to judge a pain she can not relate to. Every Father’s Day, right on cue, she almost makes sure to rub it in my face that she is a “daddy’s girl”, and how blessed she is to be his daughter. This year I decided I don’t have to tolerate that.

And so here is this blog post about my relationship with my father. A man who wasn’t perfect, but one I still love.

My dad was raised by an abusive man himself, knowing that has made forgiving him even a basic possibility. He didn’t choose to break the chain of abuse, because he had no idea how to even begin. He literally drank himself to death. He bore so much pain for the entirety of his 47 years, that he was a hellish person to be around. And he passed that hell onto his own children and spouse. After he died, I was ashamed that my response to his death was a sigh of relief. It was over. I could live a real life. That was my thinking at the time, coming out of a nightmare.

“I can be free.”

“Maybe there is a real possibility for happiness now.”

That being said, his passing was also incredibly sad for me. I am told by my mother, that I cried more than any of his children did. Not that that means much in the face of the reality that we all grieve differently. I also think maybe I just had more to cry about? It was a mess of a time for us all, as we lost our home soon after. And my mom remarried within the year.

Since my uncles’ passing there has once again been more glorifying of my dad. I think it made us all miss him a little again. 18 years has nearly slipped by, but in some ways it’ll never really fade the scars left by childhood bereavement. I lost my daddy. I lost the only father I will ever have. I lost any hope of having a relationship with him. That is a real loss, felt nearly every day.  And yet I still can’t stomach turning this man into an Angel worthy of our undying worship. And it hurts to feel that that need for some, might come before anyone’s anger or sorrow for what I have been through. Or their compassion.

See how complicated relationships can be?

Even as I sit writing this I wonder who would be mad if they read this? Would they tell me this is wrong? That I’m a bad person for choosing public writing to alleviate some of my suffering? And who might even call me a liar?

After everything I have been through am I not entitled to my true feelings about this man? Am I the bad person for having a complicated relationship with a dead man? I have equally complicated ones with live people, if that eases their suffering about my affairs.

Jennifer Love Hewitt has spoken a lot about her pain over her relationship with her own absentee father, and she gave me personal relief from the guilt complex by saying something along the lines of how difficult it is for her to maintain friendships with women who had loving father/daughter bonds. I can relate. I find that my closest friends are usually at any given time, lost daughter’s. Little girls who never felt embraced by their own flesh and blood.

These women struggle to have healthy self esteem, self worth, and  you guessed it, relationships with men. They struggle in many ways that they are not allowed to talk openly about because it would mean they are bad, and negative, and wrong for allowing suffering to take place.

I personally can’t see myself with a man who has a daughter. I used to think that I wanted a daughter myself, but am currently relieved I am a mother of boys. I can’t even imagine being faced with that loving bond being “rubbed in my face” every day of my life. I am still sore, this is true, despite my best efforts to live in forgiveness. Each new day is in fact, a new chance to be emboldened by my beliefs or to allow myself to be torn back down. I used to fall apart a lot easier, and a lot more frequently over this issue.

I have come a long way.

In an effort to heal, today of all days, I have to ask myself not to dwell on what I didn’t have with my father, but to find that match in other relationships. If I still can’t see the silver lining, than stop comparing my life to others and telling myself that experience was in any way, shape, or form, wrong. I came to paint and create art, and I do that shit better than anyone I know!

We only think we are suffering because suffering has been demonized. If we were to pluck that card right out of the deck, what would be left?


Just life, man.

Beautiful fucked up life.

Namaste’ And happy whatever day you want to celebrate today, Day. Happy, the day I forgave my life for not being perfect day is my choice.

And myself too.






Flash Backs

I’m experiencing oneness. I know, we all are. I’m not special. I don’t deserve a trophy. I’m nobody important. I get it.

I’ll try my best to explain what is currently occurring.

I woke from my slumber slowly and gently. As I came back into my body and reconnected to my life as Alisha Archuleta, I was still seeing visions flash through my mind. They were all images reflecting human connection, such as a couple holding hands as they went skydiving, a baby in the arms of a doctor as it was being born, and many other powerful and joyful human experiences like those ones.

Image after image (they just kept coming) were of the kind of things that warm you from your head to your toes. It was a bit like falling in love. I instinctively understood this feeling to be the feeling of connection, of oneness. I liked this experience very much, and didn’t rush to open my eyes and connect to my real life. I wished I could stay in this feeling forever. It was very gauzy and peaceful above all else.

I recently had another baffling experience when I went to pick up my prescribed antibiotic at the local pharmacy. I had been given a shot of something while in the emergency room that either heightened my sensitivity or made me straight loopy.

As I located the “pick up” sign and attempted to read this sign, I saw the words flash before my eyes (or minds eye) in Chinese!! I heard them whispered in my ear in Spanish, and I actually felt them in Russian. I saw images of each place, and knew instinctively that I had spent lifetimes in all of those places. In Russia I was a spiritual leader with blonde hair. An incredibly beautiful woman. I knew myself to be very important in that lifetime. My name was Svetlana, which I can’t even begin to pronounce correctly in this lifetime.

I actually asked out loud “Do I just not speak English anymore?” I suppose this experience too represents oneness.

I hope to experience more dimensions like this one, whatever is happening. It’s strange to know how close each and every reality really is once you’ve allowed yourself to stretch past your own skin.

I am all that ever was, and all that will ever be.









Dark Diva


I’m beginning to think the “holier than thou” spiritual crowd are absolutely the most mentally ill of us all. There is no trying to have a conversation with someone hellbent on proving how psychologically advanced they are in comparison to you. Like, they know absolutely everything about you in 10 seconds flat. What’s wrong with you, where your trauma resides, what you need to do to heal. All of this from listening to podcast after podcast on regurgitated teachings from one mainstream spiritual guru who currently demands the spotlight. Anyone who knows everything there is to know, knows the least of all.

I inwardly scream now when I find myself face to face with assholes who claim to be good people, who are actually just … assholes. Assholes who can’t factor in the idea that maybe they haven’t experienced every reality, and therefore know dick about how to “save” every lost soul, or soul they insultingly deem lost, who wanders their way. Like it’s their job??

I fear the comments that would be left by a “holier than thou” spiritual reader, because they wouldn’t be about seeing another perfect human being. They’d be about proving a point. The point that are perfect and healed because they are numb, and you are not because emotion leaks out of every pore of your fucked up body. Emotions such as anger, frustration, and sadness have no value in the life of those who seek to follow in the footsteps of an ideal not even that ideal ever was. These people can be downright scary. I promise you, there is nothing connecting about another asshole who has ascended to such a level of spiritual mastery that they no longer feel.

Ever meet someone who instantly makes everything okay? Oh, you hit my dog, I forgive you. Oh you stole money out of my wallet, you’re forgiven. Oh, you fucked my wife, I’m sending blessings your way. I mean, it’s insanity!!! There is nothing enlightened or beautiful about making every nasty and disgusting thing going on in the world “okay”.  And then they cry out that The Universe is so right on, because it’s so balanced. For every person who experiences poverty, is one who thrives. And because they are on the beneficial side of those kinds of arguments, they can actually insist that isn’t that like so fair? Fuck your balance and fuck your god.

These are real human beings with real needs, wants, desires, and hopes. Some of them have only ever known pain, so tell them one more time how to navigate their way through that and become another dull, mild, asshole who feels nothing but gratitude for their suffering.  And shame them while you do it, with snotty remarks about how unhealed they are, please!!

I desperately need perfect strangers echoing words like deflect, project, and inject while shaming me for being … human. Proflect, boflect, snoflect, whatever it is, I already know. I’m doing my spiritual work, but I’m coming from a different reality than they are. And they can’t understand how dark a lifetime can be. Or how much suffering one soul can carry with them.

I’m not defensive about my journey. I’ve worked hard just to be exactly where I am today.

I’ve questioned again and again, my role in the spiritual world, but that’s the problem. My role isn’t to heal average assholes with average spiritual teachings. Or repeat what someone else has already said, until nobody can stand to be near me. It’s to be a connecting force, which almost never looks perfect on the surface. Trust me. There is nothing healing or loving about spouting spiritual idioms that shame the very people they claim to want to help. Miss me with that bullshit!!

I may be an unnecessarily dark diva to some, but those people can’t fathom how beautiful the work of a rebel spiritual teacher (or how profound) will one day be. And that’s not my problem.

It is my belief that true healing will occur in allowing one’s self to become fully human. Not in becoming more spiritual.

Fuck you, but I love your soul.







Hospital Gown

On Saturday I woke up with a pounding headache. Then proceeded to become violently nauseous. This all occurred within half an hour. I knew something wasn’t quite right, as it was so sudden and so intense. I had been bitten by a rat about a week earlier so figured it best to be seen instantly.

A lot of what you read on the internet is simply untrue. Or way blown out of proportion, I learned, as days prior I had done my research on rat borne illnesses one catches when one plays with disaster. It turns out most of what you hear on the streets is straight bullshit. The day I was bitten a neighbor pretty much told me to write my will because rabies is incurable. Also, you guys, rabies has never been given to a human being via rodent bite. One click of a button and my day was immediately better. We are such a fear driven society!

I did however promise myself that if I showed any signs of the real possibility of disease I could actually catch (Rat Fever), I would turn myself in to the authorities. The minute that happened I conned my sister into rushing me to a local hospital. I felt rather ridiculous. The emergency room is supposed to be reserved for that which really is an emergency, but apparently I was feeling ill enough that any relief sounded plausible. I’m glad today that I made that decision. When it comes to your life, it is precious and worth protecting. Also, just having antibiotics prescribed is a comfort in and of it’s self. Though they are making me a tiny bit nauseous and sleepy – I can handle another nine days of symptoms related to my healing. Peace of mind is valuable anytime.

Today my emotional state is a bit jilted. As in, I’m feeling a little shocked and taken aback by the lack of emotional support from people I guess I expected it from. I mean, it takes nothing to ask someone how they’re doing after they’ve been hospitalized (even if it was for an hour), or to send ones love to someone you care about. I even had a few of these same offenders reach out to me for moral support involving their own problems!! Talk about selfish and so disappointing. I am human.

That is where the disconnection in our society begins, and I’m not going to pretend that it isn’t what it is, because that solves nothing. I can not tell you how many times over the last few years in particular someone who should have chosen to confront a rather important situation (with me) regarding many various topics, just sort of … didn’t.

Today I found myself at the hospital again, visiting a “VERY CLOSE  friend”. This after a death in my family earlier this month, and I can’t help but wonder what frequency I’m even on this year. It feels a bit like bubbles rising to the surface in order to become calm once more. I’m feeling a bit shaken up by this year, which often means that there will be collapse of structures long held into place. This could be both detrimental and healing. Probably a bit of both.

Often what is best for us spiritually isn’t what looks best to our human ego’s. And that is where trust in yourself is created once and for all. 

I actually have others seeing my journey and asking me to guide them in a sense. I can not do that. I am on my own journey. The answer really is frustrating, but it’s also freeing. Trust your journey, and trust that you are capable enough to figure it out on your own. Nobody has the hard answers for you, and you should never expect answers to be solid forever anyway. Life is fluid, always flowing and ever changing. There is beauty in that, because just when you think your situation is on lock down, it can change.

You could sit in a room for years at a time, doing nothing, never even moving a muscle, and something, eventually EVERYTHING, would shift.

I’m not feeling like myself this week, but maybe that’s because the person I keep expecting to see in the mirror again, is no longer.

Don’t be afraid to evolve past your highest expectations of self.




Patchwork Quilt Heart

A pearl is formed over time by grains of sand irritating it. I’m much the same. I’m the evolving woman. The over-thinker. The analyzer. And the one who will see her way out of the past. Fully.

It’s alarming to see yourself through new eyes, especially the eyes of love and compassion. I’ve been told I’m too hard on myself. I’ve always aimed for “better” in any area I’ve dabbled in. I carry the torch of passion anywhere and everywhere I go. Once upon a time (like recently), I assumed this made me “too much”. I am close to tears as I even write this, because what kind of belief is that to live with every day for nearly 35 years? It’s a belief that is built upon the foundation of self hatred. My core wound has manifested in many branches of this single wound. I hated myself once, so much so that I understood that I deserved to be hurt, to be forgotten, to be ignored. I feel like every day of this life I’ve thirsted emotionally for something that would quench the unquenchable. And so I stumbled into the life of being a “spiritual teacher” in training. Every time I take another footstep out of the darkness that has been my entire existence, I am surprised. Some people are taken aback by bad news, but I am thrown off by surviving another afternoon. By this person I’m becoming who pushes back and barges through emotional and spiritual barrier’s. True strength isn’t the anger I carried around like a flame waiting to ignite anything that appeared the least bit threatening. It’s choosing to be gentle. Even if I do still dance a little dance, a few steps forward, one back, and forward again. I’m learning. My teacher is asleep and I’m still awake.

If there is one lesson I feel worthy of mastering in this lifetime as Alisha Archuleta, it will be to love. I don’t have to believe in people, or even that they are always worthy of my love. I don’t have to allow bad energy into my life, or play with the core wound manifestations of “lack of love”. I can ask for more from my friends, family, and myself. And if they can’t deliver that, I can walk away from them. I am free. Love isn’t clinging, or holding tight to someone. It’s allowing them to love another, to walk away, to choose the wrong thing, even to manifest their own death. I’m not here to change anyone’s life but for my own, but I’m able to connect people to certain aspects of life after death if that helps. Or their guides. My job isn’t to love the unlovable. It’s to see that which is perfect in God’s eyes. And love that person. So much of love has been painful for me, because of my hopes and expectations.

I’ve carried the burden of lost love for an entire lifetime. I’ve let love slip away time and again, expecting it to be perfect or nothing at all. It can be frustrating to love another and know that you aren’t meant to be more than a lesson to each other.

If I were to be honest about what all of these lessons are trying to teach me (and I do mean all of them!!), it would be to keep my heart wide open. To birth love again and again. To become a vessel of pure love. To grasp for nothing but love. To hold onto one thing; love. To hope and scheme for but one experience; love. To become the manifestation of God’s love.

I recently elaborated upon this point as I realized my past behavior, that it is easy to shut doors. It’s a lot harder to open them again. Trust is so precious and it is the cornerstone of a good relationship. And yet, even if trust fails to exist, the love is still there. Never lost. Always abundant. You can cover it up in years of let downs and disappointments. You can lie every chance you get, but it doesn’t tear the love out of your soul so you no longer have to suffer love. Love isn’t, in fact, why we suffer at all. It’s the potential or perceived loss of love that causes us so much discomfort.

I am every age I’ve ever been, and I’m a fraction of every person I have loved. I am shreds of this and tatters of that. I am sewn together not because I have actually been torn apart, but because when you love someone you include them in the patchwork quilt that becomes your heart. And there is always room for more. Though my fingers often run over my favorites pieces of that quilt, again and again. Some people you simply never forget, even if you thought at one point in time, that you could. It’s like that scene in fifty first dates where the woman with memory loss, forgets her own boyfriend. He walks in to see a room full of her paintings, and they are all of him only she doesn’t “remember” him. He knows somewhere inside of her he remains.

She is changed forever by his memory, because souls never forget that which was real love – it is already a part of them, set aflame by another in perfect alignment with their energy at the exact right time. Precious works of “God” – the lovers entangled in pure abandonment of their hearts to one another.

I am ready to admit that when my friend Justin killed himself, a part of me shut down. I can’t believe it has been nearly three years and here I am still unable to admit that I loved him. Very much. Enough to dedicate a life to his memory; my own.

As my evolution continues I expect that this feeling of peace will as well. And maybe I’ll master a few more things, like genuine happiness.

Where there is love, there is a reason to live. If we remember that, we have the only answer we’ll ever really need.




Alternative Love

“She hears a distant drummer and follows a star most of us have never seen.” – Linda Goodman, on Aquarius females in her book Sun Signs


I’m an Aquarius. Let’s start with that little nugget of information, so that all that follows might be referred back to that one statement.

I’m not cold or unfeeling. In fact, I’m willing to bet my heart beats as ardently for my chosen love’s as any heart does. In fact, maybe harder, in my opinion. In other words, I fall in love a lot. And it never works out, of course. I laugh at myself though, because I know that once it does, all Hell breaks loose. There has to be a buffer for me, between real love and that which only resembles it because my core wounds insist I actually love being abused. Totally not my fault, by the way.

I often feel pulled to someone, until I realize why that magnetic attraction was there in the first place. Then, in true Aquarian fashion, I turn as cold as the ember’s on the ground after a late night campfire. And that is that. There is no going back. My heart must align with someone new and hopefully, better. I’m not afraid to put one foot in front of the other, or to travel alone.

I’ve hit a point though, where I’ve apparently been single for “too long”, because others are starting to notice. As in, I’m getting comments about my sexuality (Am I a lesbian?), about my relationship with my son (I’d rather hang out with a 7 year old, what does that say about you?), and there is that whole people deciding they might as well take things into their own hands and play “cupid”, because I may die single and buried in cat feces. Like, that’s so terrible!

I know they mean well. Well, some of them. The others are just threatened by someone who is entirely comfortable with their own company. As a woman I suppose love should be first on my list of things to accomplish before I die. Jennifer Aniston (who oddly enough is also an Aquarian!) has talked about this a little bit. About how people think there is actually something wrong with you if you’re single for “too long”. Especially as an aging woman in a society that wishes it would just legalize child sex already, because youth is always the more attractive option.

There are no pictures of me falling in love online for a reason. I am a private person when it comes to whom is the object of my affection until I have any reason to reveal that. I’m very open in most ways, but my love life isn’t one of them. I like that about myself. In a world that would sell it’s firstborn child’s photo to a magazine for a fifty bucks in the snap of a finger, I cling to some sort of respect for that which is sacred. Also, literally, it just really never gets that far.

I like a lot of people. I like men and woman of all ages and races, and backgrounds. I like people I don’t really know in reality, and people I have known my whole life. I like who I like, and I do carry the same hope as anyone who secretly does hope to once again have the experience of falling in love, does. I am human. I do want the right person to come along!!

I’m inundated by men who claim to be interested in me who never ask me what my favorite color even is. Like, that’s five words. They seem to think the overused phrase, “you’re so beautiful” is going to light my panties on fire. Dig, motherfucker, dig. You ain’t gotta be the deepest chump in the zodiac, but you do have to be self aware enough to know how to make a fully developed woman feel like opening up.

I’m frequently frustrated with the lack of depth I find in individual’s who pursue me. I can’t stand boring men who are willing to settle for some half ass version of life. I’m practically starving to death as I wait for a man who not only knows how to feed himself, but might actually have something to serve me too. I like to eat, motherfucker. Soul food on the menu?

And yet, I’m not a weeping romantic either. I don’t like played out shows of romantic affection. If a “player” is using all the same cards for every woman he meets, he can keep the deck and play 52 card pick up by himself. I’m not that woman. I won’t play 52 card  pick up with you! I won’t do it!!

The point of my ranting tonight though, was to ask a simple question: Why is it so hard for people to believe a woman might just be fine on her own?

Is my worth (as a woman) really wrapped up in a man?

No ma’am, I didn’t say that.

Am I passing up the age of attractive enough to be a worthy man’s trophy wife?


Is my twin flame sexual energy really to be found in another human?

I’m pretty sure it’s mine. Like, nobody can give it to me, when it’s born of me.

Do I not make myself laugh?

All the motherfuckin’ time.

Aren’t I bored with the competition because my mind is so unraveled and fucked up, nobody can match it enough to keep me entertained long enough to remove my panties and shove them in his mouth?

You wanna do what with your panties?

Am I only half a person until a willing ape and a half walks onto the battlefield and shouts as he pumps his chest with his fists, “Me, Tarzan! You, Jane!” ?

Just eat me and make this exciting then …

I’m not saying I’m perfectly content … I’m saying until cupid hits me with the right arrow, I’m content. Until I’m knocked flat on my ass by a brand new experience rather than some regurgitated bullshit fed to every willing vagina, that I’m willing to wait. Miss me with that arrow! You ain’t gotta’ be like that, cupid!

Are you whole without a car? Without a successful career? Without a child that looks like you? Or follows in your shoes? Without being crowned most beautiful or popular?


Maybe the most radical kind of love a girl can chase, is self love. Try and keep up …

Namaste, beautiful fuckers.




Night Terrors

I haven’t had a night terror attack in quite some time. I think in most recent years they occur one or two times a year. If that. There was a time in my life when they were a lot more frequent, in my childhood and teen years. And when I first began my relationship with my most recent long term ex., when I was nineteen. I would wake up in a state of shock (I always recalled very little if anything of these incidents), and he’d go to work with fingernail scratches all over his arms the next morning. He called them nightmares, but they were much more than that.

Last night I woke up to myself screaming “bloody murder”, as if being attacked in some horrifying manner. My son and his father entered my room. They said I was clearly pointing to the corner of my room, as if there was something there. I resisted that idea. I didn’t want to believe it had anything other than a scary dream like type thing. But the more I remembered, the more I did recall seeing a black shape in the very corner I’d been pointing to. It had obviously been the shape of a person. I also heard in my left inner ear a calm voice telling me to scream as loud as I could. And then I woke up to myself in full blown panic attack mode.

I have a lot of questions today. What exactly is a night terror from a spiritual perspective? One that isn’t tainted by the degree of logic that would rule out anything but a “scientific” answer. One that probably often leaves much to be desired for many people.

A. Are these night terror’s caused by repressed childhood trauma? That would make sense considering my bedroom wasn’t exactly a safe place for me as a child who was molested and raped. B. Are they a past life memory energy surfacing? That too could be accounted for with the understanding of how gruesome my life ended in my previous life as a disgustingly exploited murder victim. Or C. Are they a psychic attack? There was definitely an entity in my room. My guides can be heard in my left ear, through my inner ear. This all adds up to. Last but not least, D. Are they related to stress? I just lost a family member to an untimely death. My weekend was chaotic and introduced a lot of new energies into my aura. Death carries an extra punch for me as I navigate my way through a world that is new to me. One that I often feel I can’t talk about openly or honestly.

I do carry a lot of fear in me. I once saw someone write a list of ways that they (solely themselves) could make themselves feel safe in the world. I guess it’s time for me to realize that my journey is one that may continue as a single person who simply must master self soothing, and all that comes with consistently choosing to wait for a real potential partner in crime, than accepting the next thing in line, and so it is still my responsibility to continue to strengthen my spiritual core. I’m strong enough to do that. Even in the event of a night terror.











An Empath At A Funeral

Being an empath when someone dies is not quite the same as being a regular person when someone dies. I knew the energy of the many people I love would hit me hard. And it did. It left me unable to function on an emotional level as far as into today. And I am, of course, grieving on my own personal level a loss that hit me harder than I expected it to. Why is it when someone dies we want to recall all those lost memories? One by one, we pull them to the surface and dissect them. I mean, why is that the main thing we do when one passes on? It’s like an automatic coping mechanism kicks into gear, one that we never even question. Maybe it’s part of the healing process, and we instinctively understand it’s importance to our survival as the living.

I had expectations of this death taking place in May, but when it happened (it actually happened!) I was still thrown off the rails. I often still struggle to understand the power of my intuition. Like I’ve elaborated before, sometimes it makes sense, and other times I feel it is more symbolic. I turned to my cousin as I browsed the racks for an appropriate outfit to wear to a funeral, and warned her, “If I ever tell you not to take that plane, DON’T get on the fucking plane.” I mean, who else can even comprehend something like predicting a future event?

I am so tired of hearing people exclaim after someone dies, “I felt like I was supposed to reach out to him.” Then do it. Please, by all means. I hate that we’ve come to mistrust our own “feelings” so much that we miss out on what could have been our last chance to tell someone we love them. I’ve actually witnessed this phenomenon more than once, and it seriously hurts my very soul to realize that such monumental moments were missed because of self doubt.

I didn’t cry. I was in shock. I walked around in circles like “what the fuck happened?” all week long. I can’t imagine what the people closest to my uncle were going through. Like, how do you just go on? Chores become unimportant. Moments that once brought joy just seem forced. I knew the dam would crack at some point and I prayed that it wouldn’t be in public. I’m such a proud “non-crier” about life. I never cry, I like to say. I am that fucking strong. My dad used to repeatedly tell my siblings and I, like a dill seargent, to “never cry”. I actually didn’t really cry at his funeral. When the tears threatened to fall, I ran in the opposite direction.

As soon as I entered the room where my uncle lay in his coffin, I did just that. I ran back out the door. I blinked back tears. I ran into a cousin (his son actually), gave him a hug and offered my condolences. I readied myself and walked back in that goddamn door. His oldest daughter stood at his casket, like she had at his side throughout his life. I fell into her arms practically sobbing. I felt myself trembling, my legs actually physically shaking, as we embraced and cried together. I could not believe this was actually coming out of me. I’ve always been so poised emotionally? I mean, when others were falling apart I wasn’t. Yes, even at funerals.

And so was this theme for the rest of my week.

I can not believe the person emerging from the brittle shell of who I’ve always been. It’s actually really uncomfortable for me. I cried in more than one persons arms that day, and nobody thought less of me. “This is family”, my cousin Steven said. I think this weekend is the first time in a long time I understood the gravity of the meaning of the word “family.” It’s like being thirsty forever, and finally taking a sip of water. You wonder, of course, how you lived for so long the way you did. How the loneliness alone didn’t kill you. I don’t think family is necessarily who you’re related to, but it can be. Not everybody understands that love is deeper than baring the title you’re given over them (Aunt, Uncle, Cousin). It’s the feeling of being home, even if home doesn’t at all look like “The Brady Bunch”.

I broke down in public and I lived. I watched a lot of people cry, without any shame. I met cousins and uncles I’ve never taken the time to get to know. I had conversations I never would have had had I taken the easy route, and done what I always do. Or what would have been most comfortable.

I see my family and I see perfect people. No matter what they’re going through. No matter how they feel, or what they’re struggling with. My role in this world isn’t to be poised, pretty, and perfect all of the time. The typical request of American men and women. Especially mothers. We do not have to keep it together all of the time. The kitchen can be left filthy in pursuit of real life. Often.

And people are messy, but they’re beautiful. In fact, maybe most beautiful when they are messy.

I am not sure where my path is taking me anymore. I’ve given up on guessing. Hoping. Wishing. Creating. I just know now with all my heart, that the way there will be traveling the path of unconditional love. It always has been. Love is the only thing we take with us when we pass on to the next world.

After my uncle passed the message he kept pushing through me is this one: “Keep your heart open.”

As uncomfortable as this new phase of my life has already been, I don’t think I can live any other way anymore. What would be the point of a life that shut everyone out? What would be the point of experiencing all of the best and worst moments in the solitude of a frozen heart? What would be the point of never knowing how beautiful your own family is? Or who you could become once the walls have all fallen down?

There is no point to a life without people in it to love unconditionally.

Life is too short to be afraid of the thing we seek the most, and are often willing to risk our lives for. The food that nurtures our soul, keeping us alive. The oneness within the individual experience.



*I had to leave the funeral at one point as the grief in the room made it impossible for me to even stand up or breathe. It’s like a pressure cooker when I’m in a room with that much pain in it.






Heaven Is My Home

I watched Coco a day before I received the news of a death in my family, which I can’t help but feel is symbolic. Of course.

I have every bit of a hard time with death as most people, but I think I also struggle less to accept the loss because to me it doesn’t feel like loss. After all, I do have the ability to tap into other dimensions and connect with deceased people whenever I desire. Not that there is always an answer, but the idea that they are so close to us even after death, is comforting enough sometimes.

I also value the “experience” aspect of life and know that all souls opt into whatever experience they would like to have. There are no accidents or tragedies in the spiritual realm, just an opportunity for souls to learn and grown via a body and human realm experience. It’s the blind third dimensional reality (designed to feel real) that keeps most of stuck in long overdue grief, death related or otherwise. Who am I to tell a soul they have chosen the wrong ending?

In the movie Coco the main character, Miguel is a Mexican little boy who visit’s the afterlife on Dia De Los Muerto’s. I strongly relate to his “dream”, because in a way I visit the afterlife when I connect to those who have passed on.

I woke up the morning after being told of this family member’s death knowing that I needed to find a certain photo of  my firstborn son and his “grandpa”. I posted it online and wrote a tiny bit about him, but the nagging feeling of needing to create my own ofrenda has been chasing me ever since.

I was very touched by the way the Mexican culture seems to really want to honor their loved ones in death. Even the otherwise long forgotten eldest members of a familia. I guess we do that here in America, or we attempt to, but I don’t think we place such importance on keeping a family together by creating something like an alter where we can always peer back at the faces of time. Where we came from. I mean, who were these people? What were they like? What were their reasons for living?

I think I will create my own ofrenda. And maybe continue the research on my family bloodline I started decades ago.

I just wish I could include the most recent mental selfie I took of my son’s “grandpa” being warmly welcomed home by other long deceased loved ones, in absolute joy and love, when I do. What a welcome “back” home. I also wish I could bottle that feeling and share it with you in your times of loss, so that you would know without a shadow of a doubt that where we go when we die is truly where we belong.






Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑