185/365 : what happens when you're an artist, and your father says, "there is no undoing what you've done," in regards to living FOR A FEW MONTHS off your credit card

1. after years of protest and quick-wit out lashes of passion, you decide this time, to simply say, "thank you."

2. added to your, "thank you" is your, "i hear your. i hear how scared you are. i hear that you're afraid i won't ever be safe in the world, and i hear how upset you are with both of us for getting into this spot, that you see no way out of. i hear that you want my future to be safe. i hear that you don't trust the world, and in reality, don't trust the way i am in the world. i hear you."

3. you ask, "what can you do to make yourself feel more safe in this situation?"

4. you let him do whatever he needs.

5. you hang up the phone with an, "i love you."

6. you let the swell of energy in your throat move toward your collarbone, out to the edges of your shoulders, down to your elbows, forearms, fingertips.

7. you write a new security. you write a thousand ways out. you write the truth: that you are alive and happier than you ever were under the scrutiny of cash-based worth assessments. you write the other truth: that you know you are called to make this world safer for the artists, mystics, healers and lovers. you write up an offering, an invoice, a love letter, a thank you note. you write a poem that goes like this:

8. dear dad,

the sky has plucked
my feathers of fear
one by one

i feel my nakedness

and i have already come undone

this skin-to-sun reality
this burning

is not a death to me

i know the names
of all the neighbors
and all the trees

the creek has held me

in my grief

and given of herself
in my thirst

there are worse things
in the world

than befriending the wild

isolation

is not my way

i'm okay here
i'm okay

love,
rachael

9. you get back to work.