Dangerous Compassions



Hello, reader.  I’m very in need of comfort.  I would kiss my own head, if I could.  Or that tender zygomatic arch place.  My forehead, but not in the middle–kind of by my right eye.

The world can be brutal.  People especially can be brutal.  I’m sorry I spoke up and risked being misunderstood.  My words were either wrong and dismissable, or correct and causing a very upset response.  Oops–I poked the wrong misanthrope.

I notice the very upset response and feel the wrath I’ve incurred.  Anger like a toddler tantrum, but from a grown adult with testosterone and much bigger muscles.  A grown adult who can’t regulate and who I never should have said yes to touching me.  I had no idea, the danger I would find as a price to pay.


I do that move where I turn my back on the mini-tornado, crouch down, and hope the wind doesn’t tear me into the sky.  Sand, gravel, and small twigs pelt my body and scrape the places where my skin is bare.

The wind is much louder than I expected, and I don’t know how long it will last.  I know I might die, but at this point, there’s nothing to do.  There’s nowhere to run–I hiked out here with no overhang, cliff side, or tree to cling to.  It’s vast, bare desert for miles.  The earth isn’t stable like usual.  It whips up in the wind.

I realize I stopped breathing when the sand started needling my face.  I cover my mouth and nose with my sleeve to keep the dirt out of my airways and breathe again.  If I die, that’s ok too.  Every choice I made was for love, curiosity, and giving.  If my choice was wrong, I know no other way to behave.  I did and said exactly what I needed to.  If my intuition is that wrong, I have to believe that something greater will come of this, some blessing completely unforeseen.

The universe is trustworthy, and I haven’t been truly fucked over in years.  I thought I was on a good path.  If I’m really that wrong, I give up.

I’m like a 12 stepper who hands it all over to God.  “Let go–let God.”  Not the nurturing breasty Mother God I pray to daily, but a patriarchal gambling God who’s more about second, third, and thousandth chances.


What is your favorite comfort?  In my family, violent male relatives enjoyed alcohol then opioids.  The women enjoyed food, touch, babies, Jesus, Christmas, jewelry.  A quiet weekend watching too many movies, crocheting on the couch.  I’m sorry if that’s tmi.

Modern times, I’ve been closely connected to angry men who love weed and cheap porn for comfort.  Sorry about that.  Ming likes flashlights, headlamps, first aid supplies, takeout containers, checking, and writing down everything he does.

For comfort I used to smoke cigarettes.  Now I like making art, txting with temporary chosen family, touch with people I trust, avocados, spinach, clean water, and writing these blog posts every day.

It’s like planting countless seeds random places.  One day I’ll rest under a vine I planted, but I won’t know it was me.

long view

I find comfort in the long view.  My life is not one relationship or one problem.  My life is vast, the inner world and the outer.

“What do my ancestors want for me?” I asked the cards yesterday.  I got two of wands.  My ancestors blood and art want me to ponder what I really want and imagine their perspective for a moment.  So many choices are available to me.  My ancestors have a long view.  They’re dead–they have all the perspective in the world.

My life is much more than an argument or a specific day.  My ancestors have big plans for me, and I hope I have decades left to realize them.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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