Tag Archives: Blog


I love the spiritual community.

I hate the spiritual spin.

Deflecting under a spiritual guise. Blaming soul contracts. Using overly simplified slogans as cop outs – I guess she’s just on her journey … Well, She did the best she could at the time … I’m a Pisces, what can I do about it? … It’s written in the stars. 

The awkwardness that comes from such a passive release of responsibility makes me cringe. But that’s probably just my ego trying to maintain control. Really? When are we going to move beyond blaming our egos and shadow sides? 

Maybe it was just you. Maybe you made that choice. Not your ego. Not your shadow side. Maybe it was you who decided to do that. Maybe you enjoyed it. Maybe that’s OK.

Then again, that’s probably just my ego saying that or my traumatized inner-child.

My inner-child – I can’t even go there. I’m done fracturing myself into ages. Done defining myself by chronological traumas. Thirteen-year-old Billy, is nine-year-old Billy, is the Billy typing this blog. We are one in the same. No more pitting all my parts against each other.

Sometimes I want to grab a bliss bunny by the shoulders and scream, “Letting Go before processing isn’t self-empowerment, it’s self-avoidance!

Cards. Charts. Gurus. None of these possess the answer(s). They’re powerful tools. When used correctly they provide new prospectives, reveal connections beyond this realm, fill in blanks, and offer confirmation – usually to things you already knew. But the only thing I know, is that I know nothing. 


OK. Then I guess that’s your Truth.

And for me that’s what spirituality is all about – living your Truth.

At least that’s how I’m spinning it.

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For years I suppressed it. Terrified. I closeted my secret.

I couldn’t allow anyone to know. Truthfully, I didn’t really know.

I was aware of a difference. I felt alien. Something about me didn’t match what I was surrounded by. I wasn’t like all the other boys. Some I felt a commonality with some. Others not so much.

Anatomically I was similar. A bit more athletic than most. A little less gifted than others. I understood them. They were easy to mimic. Simple in most ways. Complex in a few.

Behind closed doors it would come out. Usually in dramatic fashion.

The older I got, the more it raged. Gnawed at me. Chipped away from the inside. Refused to not be heard. Resisted being stuffed down. Screamed until it received my undivided attention.

No longer capable of ignoring, I was forced to look. At first it confused me. I mistook it for something it wasn’t. Sexuality. Athleticism. Sexuality again.

I had to spend a lot of time with it. Togetherness dissolved separation.

Surrendered control led to self-acceptance.

Armed with self-love I cracked opened the door. Slowly I began to share this part of myself. Honest reflections exposed me to me. Confidence grew. Door opened wider. I stepped out. Sighed. Tightened. Doubted.

Stayed out.

In doing so I took ownership over what I really am; creative.

Now there’s no going back.


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What makes someone brave?

This question has been bouncing around my brain this week.

I looked it up:

brave /brāv/ adjective
ready to face and endure danger or pain; showing courage.
The toughest thing I have ever faced has been myself. Objectively. Honestly.
It’s not easy asking yourself tough questions. Is that what really happened? 
It’s even harder answering those tough question. Maybe. But maybe theres’s more to it. 
Knowing is easy.
Not knowing requires one to be brave.  


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I listen to a song. It’s from a different time. When I was younger

I time travel on its melody. I slip back there. Return to happiness.

I fall back into my mind. Consider all the choices  that were made. Hers. Mine. Ours.

I know everything is exactly as it’s supposed to be.

I smile. Tears find ducts. They build. Fall. Roll down the crease between my nose and cheek. I laugh. Sing the chorus.

I hear words I never heard before. All these years I had it wrong. But the words don’t matter. Only the memories matter now.

And the memories are good. Better than the song.

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Life isn’t ours to keep. It’s only ours to give.

I have to remind myself of this. More often then I’d like to admit.

Sometimes I want to hold on. Refuse the world of my gifts. Play small. Have you notice me through a pathetic filter. Present my self to the world, instead of my Self.

Then I pause. And remember all that I still want to do: Run. Paint. Scream. Strum. Cry. Laugh. Beat. Paddle. Fall. Ride. Fly. Swim. Crawl. Meditate. Sing. Louder. LOUDER. Rest. Reflect. Reconsider. Pause. Sprint. Jump. Freeze. Change directions. Flip. Flop. Misunderstand. Fight. Whisper. Listen. Pray. Share. Stay. Look back. Return. Plan. Doubt. Overact. Be dramatic. Giggle. Swoon. Learn. Unlearn. Try. Roll. Bounce back. Take responsibility. Rejuvenate. Sparkle. Get up. Be heard. Focus. Take chances. Sit. Dance. Lead. Escape. Remember. Rejoice. Unite. Breathe. Write. Tell Stories. Unapologetically surrender.

Life isn’t yours to keep. It’s only yours to give.

So give it your all.

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Growing up, the T.V. helped me understand my role. It taught me how to act. Showed me how to behave in a particular situation. Made me understand what kind of things I was supposed to laugh at, when to cry, how to fit in, and what a perfect life looked like.

On any given day, I would spend hours in front of the television. Watching. Learning. Studying. Mimicking.

Mostly my teachers were comedians, usually of the sitcom variety, and dramatic actresses. I’ve always preferred actresses to actors, especially in dramatic roles.

My family possessed a taste for the dramatic. Especially Mama. Her entire life seemed to be one continuous act. She seemed to be living inside this single woman show that was part drama, part comedy, always authentically raw.

I never saw the camera crews that followed us around, but I would keep my eyes open for them. Mama must have known where they were positioned at all times because she was always playing up to them. Especially in public places. I felt bad for the bystanders who thought she was causing a scene. Their confusion kept them from witnessing the role of a lifetime.

She was better than good. I had to stay on my toes. Be ready to morph in and out of supporting characters on a moments notice. I got pretty decent at acting, never as good as Mama though. She was committed to her role. She always gave it her all. She lived and breathed her character.

My senior year of high school, I earned the award for best supporting actor for my part as Big Jule in the spring musical. Even though she wasn’t able to attend, I silently dedicated it to Mama. She taught me everything I knew about acting.

The television taught me everything else.

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