while you wait
for those who love their grandma's, who love portals, who want to be better than the generation before, for those who dream
Thank you all for your patience. I have been transitioning into a very active life which meant being more intentional with this blog. I have a piece that I’m almost done working on! (Last editing stage!) In the meantime, I want to share something I wrote months ago and didn’t have the heart to publish it. Thank you especially to Jarvy for your commitment to growing with me—this journey has been a pleasure.
October 22nd, 2024//
“Breathe,” I repeat. Inhale, exhale. Breathe. I’m standing at the edge of something, energy everywhere. Water near my fingertips—no, wait, it’s sweat. The laundry’s going round and round, my heart pumping blood, my ears feeling full and great, my hands are tingling. There’s energy everywhere. Possibility blurring borders. Liminality, holding opportunity. I hope I get to the next interview stage.
Yesterday I bled and bled, but don’t fret—it’s just my monthly sacrifice to the moon. I look to her like a parent. “Just”... but it’s a sacrifice for a reason. When I bleed, I hurt. My mother used to tell me she hurts when I hurt, but the moon isn’t like that. My pain is solely my own, and I give it up every month on day one, a willing sacrifice—maybe repentance for my lineage’s hurt. Blood is sacred, blood sacrifices. What could my ancestors have possibly given up to offer me pain this grand? And what will I give up to make it stop?
I contemplate the altar today. I’m greedy: I want protection, I want this job, I want. I want. I want. But what do I give? I ignore my mom’s text. I think about telling my brother I love him. I pace past my altar, back and forth, wishing I had a sliver—a lining—of what the moon takes from me. Reneging. My restless hands open, scroll, close. Open, scroll, close. Again. I do this on my laptop since I’m on a “social media break,” which means I just don’t scroll on my phone. This is supposed to be good for me. I’m spending more time on my anxiety, catering to it— not always healthily.
The mirror that I hung to the foyer wall, with flimsy command strips, just fell down. A portal closes.
My grandma called just now. She’s my favorite. After lecturing me on God and my career path, I asked, “Can I speak now?”—sending us into fits of laughter. She loves to preach; I love to listen (until she hits the 20-minute mark—I tune out and return 10 minutes later).
With my grandma, it’s easy to practice restoration. We move through tension with softness. She admitted her feelings were hurt by my question; she kept talking because I said nothing. I apologized and told her it’s something I love about her, even when it’s annoying. She said it annoys her when I don’t respond.
I laughed. “That’s fair, Grandma. I don’t like interrupting. You deserve to take up space.”
We laugh a lot together.
“That’s the thing about you, Daisy. Even as a kid, you always had that laugh. We could always hear you laughing, even when life was hard.”
My grandma raised me emotionally, tried to nurture my spirit into its own. My mother tried to shape my spirit in her likeness—like God did with “man.” Like white men do when they colonize.
When I’m fearful, I slink into shadows, becoming evasive. I’m working on this. Darkness has a magnetic pull; I think it’s inherited. I don’t ignore it because I’ve seen what that has done to my family members.
I think what pulls me toward my grandma is her alchemy. Yes, she’s a Scorpio, but she’s also a wizard. She acknowledges her pain, her darkness, her humanity, and alchemizes it into faith.
I don’t mind her lectures about God; she’s making medicine and passing it on the best way she knows how. I, too, make medicine and shove it down others’ throats for free. We have that in common.
My partner asked me to take a walk around 8:30 pm. I should’ve asked to do it in the morning, but I’m a people-pleaser, so I said yes. I’d hurt their feelings earlier in the day. We’ve been in a “process,” which really means I need regular time and space alone. Grief has a way of muting all logics and timelines.
We take the same path when in conflict—the same streets, same conversation, same anger, hurt, fear, the same shame. Round and round and round we go, pulling in, pushing away, every step is an unfurling of genetic makeup we didn’t ask for. Our traumas shapeshifting into something amorphous.
Ever since I moved into my first apartment alone, portals have been opening everywhere.
The last time I felt this much energy, I was 23. My dreaming magic tracked me down like a long-lost family member. There is so much to say here but I’m grateful every day for it. This gift changed the trajectory of my life path. It led me to her, to them, to here, to writing. My portal, not just a portal.
On our call, my grandma said God must have led me back to writing. That He has my whole life planned out and steered me here for a reason. Back to writing. She told me to use my gift of writing to get myself into graduate school. She also said she’d sleep better knowing I believe in God, too. I couldn’t dare tell her that our gods aren’t the same. Instead, I just said, “I find God sitting in the grass, in the wind whipping across my face, in birds, the clouds, at a party laughing with people.” (Definitely dancing on drugs, but I didn’t dare say that either.)
She agreed, much to my surprise. Do you see her wizardry too?
god and portals are the same. Mirrors are portals. Who do you see? Who do you see? Are you thinking about your reflection? I am.
My partner and I joke about sharing one brain cell. Our souls are reflective in a way that makes me want to grow up. I texted them an apology for being nutty on our walk. I should’ve—and easily could’ve—acknowledged their hurt. Instead, I let my core wound, who is also my inner child, lead.
Her specialty is: I didn’t do anything wrong, so now I’m going to nitpick your logic because I don’t deserve whatever punishment is coming my way. You’re being controlling, and now I want to run away."
My codependent upbringing was riddled with abuse too. In my late 20s, my homework is soothing my nervous system and seeing how my fear response results in hurting others. I’m practicing apologizing faster, reconnecting with my partner—physically and emotionally. I don’t need to protect myself like that anymore.
I’m safe. I’m loved. I’m free.
Breaking cycles is stepping into a liminal space—a place of unknowing, faith that I won’t fall and lose myself. A homecoming. A portal. Maybe that’s God to some.
I dreamt I was in a car with my love, speeding down a highway, making eye contact with everyone we passed. Wind whipping across my face, full of knowing energy. I don’t know what it means, but I woke up feeling rested.
I’m alive.
What will this new day bring?
<3