I am a bunny

***Image via Cartoon Network found on Internet.

I am a bunny

hear me roar.

What?

You say that I cannot roar?

That I am too tiny and too cute?

Do you not see the fierceness

with which I protect my heart?

Do you not see

that I am the provider of my family?

I am a bunny

see me soar.

Why?

Why do you say I cannot soar?

That I am meant to stay rooted to the ground?

Do you not see the dreams

that I create within this harsh world?

Do you not understand the hope

that I watch each day unfurl with?

I am a bunny

tiny and cute

fierce and determined

ready to embrace

the differences that life will share.

©Jay-lyn Doerksen

Oct. 9/17

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Slothism

Picture courtesy of CITPrincess.deviantart.com (Found on Internet)
Sloth is one of the seven capital sins. It is the most difficult sin to define, and to credit as sin, since it refers to a peculiar jumble of notions, dating from antiquity and including mental, spiritual, pathological, and physical states.
Yes, I looked it up because I wanted to make sure that I was using it in the correct context. I am a sinner. I once practiced the sin of sloth. A sin so insidious that you do not even know that you are a practitioner.
I once used my days off and weekends to lounge around. Doing nothing more strenuous than a load of laundry because I needed clean clothing. I also used those days to recover from a hangover or malaise of spirit that was brought on by my drinking. It is not that I did not do what was required because I did, I just would not make a further effort. I existed, I was not living.
****I think I should insert here that while some of this is serious, some of this, such as my calling myself a sinner and mocking myself is done in sarcastic humor. It is how the voice in my head talks as I write. 
You might be thinking that this was only during the time of my depressive episode which lead to me going back on my medication. And yes, the malaise was lifted, but not the drinking. I was still hiding and in doing so, was continuing to harm myself. So while I was moving forward, the energy, the desire to do more was slow in coming. In July I decided to quit drinking because of, well, I have issues. I did have a couple during birthday celebration and on holidays.
I also discovered in mid-September that I have a fatty liver, which has been brought about by my drinking. It has also lead to my hoarding of iron in my body. I made another decision once I found this out. I am going to take a year off from drinking and see where my liver situation is and also because, well that is another part of this story.
In July when I decided to quit drinking, I discovered a few things. I could still write. That had been a huge fear. Another of them. The first had been could I still write without the emotional and painful upheaval that my depression and anxiety brought along with a burst of  creativity.  I could.  Next was without alcohol.  Would my imagination, my ability to create still be there?  And again, it was.
Next I discovered that I had a great deal of excess energy. I was always on the go. And I felt great. I spent a lot of time laughing and talking with coworkers and friends. For awhile I was concerned I was on a false high in the cycle of my depression, but as each week passed I realized it was that I felt clearer. My mind was working better. My memory was better. Everything and anything was providing me with inspiration to write.
And I began and stuck with a workout regime. I make it sound like I am spending hours in the gym, I am not. I have a stationary bike at home that I ride and I spend another half hour on toning exercises of my own design. Part of the exercising to begin with, was to help lower my blood pressure. Yet as I began to see results, as I began to feel even more energized and hopeful in every aspect of my life, I was struck by how different I am from even three months ago.
My girlfriends believe that I am possessed by some evil spirit. Since I have quit drinking my sleep patterns have changed. I am no longer staying up until 1 a.m. drinking my dreams and desires away. I now go to bed between 8 and 9 p.m. and I am up between 4:30-5:30 a.m. on my days off and late starts. Let me be very honest here, I am not getting up at 3 a.m. on the days I work at 5:30 or 6 a.m. to work out, I can do that when I get home.
I realized as I was cycling away this morning that I really like this new me. I enjoy getting up early and getting everything I need to do done early. Than I have my day to write, to read, to chat with my friends. I can put my feet up and sip my coffee playing games on Facebook or checking my emails. And I can do it without feeling any guilt.
This is a huge thing for me. Alcohol has been a very large part of my life. In the last few years it was how I coped with my problems. With my fears.  It lead to me making some dubious decisions. Alcohol also made me feel less. Less of myself. Less creative. A crutch and a parasite on my being.
It has been two weeks since I made this decision. Two weeks where I have not had a glass of wine. But the thought has crossed my mind. Eventually each week is going to pass and I will think of it less and less. I will continue to catalogue the good that has come out of this decision to quit.
1)So much energy that sometimes it is hard for me to stand still.
2)A desire to eat healthily.
3)A desire to exercise. Both for health and because omg I actually enjoy it.
4)Inspiration is everywhere.
5)I am more present. I do not look at the clock and count how long it will be until I can have that first sip of wine. Rum. Whatever it was going to be.
6)Creativity that pours from my fingers.
7)I like me. The every part of me. From my brain down to my toes there is no longer a malaise of spirit.
8)I can forgive. I no longer hang onto bitterness and past mistakes. They ate at my soul and that is not who I want to be.
9)I have realized I am not perfect nor do I need to be. I am better for all my little quirks and folliables.
10)There really is no ten but the list would look a little off without a 10th thing.
As I reread this I realize most of you are lost by now. Wondering what the hell my decision to quit drinking has to do with slothism. And you have every right to. This became one of my rambling conversations where a lot of things have been storing up and I finally figured out how to write them. I apologize.
My slothism took the guise of alcohol. It numbed me. Helped me to rationalize why I was the way I was. How I continued to feel the same despite having tackled my depression head on. It allowed me to be. It helped to shadow the woman I am. The woman I have always wanted to be.
I needed to be slothful. I needed to sin per se so I could repent (tongue in cheek) with a lifestyle change. I am not a religious person so this is my stab at humor. Snort or shake your head in despair I admit it is bad.
I am now the opposite of slothful. I am the friend who gets up early by choice while everyone else is still asleep. Not sure what the proper term for it is. My friends all tell me it makes me crazy. But they still love me. 🙂

Days of Yore

In days of yore,

I would find myself at the crossroad

where the devil dances.

Skeletal tree limbs braced by ashen sky,

a gibbet swaying on creaking rope,

filled with the broken pieces

of the thief in chains.

My shattered crown

threaded together with brambles

entwined in gnarled locks of gold

held in place speared through my flesh.

I search for the path that will lead me

back to the sanity,

the truth

that once sheltered me.

My hands blooded as I hold my heart

torn from my breast

and cast aside,

a treat for any passing wolf.

My rage grows knowing no bounds.

No longer am I the sweet princess

but the bitter Queen scorned.

In days of yore,

you would have cast me unto the wilds

letting fate and nature

sway your course.

A kinder,

fairer,

more humane demise

to what was once a love

so deep and true.

In days of yore

I could find another love

another man to hold me.

In days of yore

I could continue the dance

of life and love.

In days of yore……..

I would not feel my heart ripped apart

by the beast that shares your tongue.

©Jay-lyn Doerksen

Oct. 7/17

 

 

 

 

Compass of Souls

Wept the child tears of lead

for the scenes of depravity shone,

in times where all claim to be more

we show our true nature.

Fangs sharpened,

tearing at skin.

Claws tapered,

to hook and rip.

Words bartered back and forth

the innocent condemned.

My right, your right

we all scream for our perceived rights.

We jostle and push,

cattle in a stampede,

aimless, scared

trodding on those

who get in the way.

The path is lost again and again

the mores, the truths.

The compass of souls is broken. 

Never again to point us

in the right direction.

©Jay-lyn Doerksen

October 2/17

 

 

 

Beyond My Reach

Soft music plays in the background,

soothing.

Steaming coffee held in hand

warming.

Watching cold November rains

drenching the lasting autumnal colors

bleaching everything to ashen grey.

Summer’s warm rays gone,

replaced with winter’s cruel winds

and blowing snow.

Spring’s rebirth, that is what I wait for.

For in those brief moments,

I can recapture the belief of love ever after.

The artist’s easel set to southern light

a portrait only half in the making.

Shadows on the edge of a damaged soul

staked like prey in a velveteen web.

Broad strokes insinuate a half filled form

yet blackness shrouds the face.

Where did the time go my love?

Why have you not claimed what is yours?

A writer’s pad set to the left

passages of lyrics

half formed, making no sense.

Tear stained for the pain

that seeps through my pores.

For dreams I write,

so I can pretend

that you are mine again.

Insanity bleeds from me

my mind has become a blank blur.

Numb to all but this heartbeat

that flutters beneath my breast.

Your heartbeat.

Your promise.

The one that said

you would always return to me.

Beyond my reach,

beyond my door,

in the real world you dwell;

far from me and my torture.

©Jay-lyn Doerksen

October 1/17

Time Eternal

Liquid lines 

moving through time eternal

strands weaving and warping

telling the same old tales.

Woe shall befall the King

proclaims the blinded seer.

Blood shall spatter the Good Queen’s name

shouts the sinister beggar.

Behold the chains binding the waif

bending her to knee and back,

leaving a hole in the fabric of being

as her lover clamors for return,

speaketh the Oracle.

Each saga the same. 

Each time a repeat of another

as each soul is reborn 

prey to the Fates,

who play them like pawns upon the chessboard.

©Jay-lyn Doerksen

Sept. 30/17