The Sisterhood of the Sacred Women Tribe

Welp.  The sun came out Saturday for a while.  We were able to wear shorts and flip flops.  The Kentucky muthas were here, and we conducted sacred patio meetings while the sun’s healing energies swirled around us.  Good times, folks.

If your ears were burning, it’s because we were talking about you.  If it’s a problem that affects the Sisterhood of the Sacred Women tribe, then you better believe it is important to us and we are hell bent on fixing it.

I hope that you all will report back to me that you are conducting your own sacred patio meetings in your own communities, with members of your own Sisterhood of the Sacred Women tribe.  Because the world needs us.  We can’t stretch ourselves too thin.  This is very important work, this mutha stuff.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to pondering big darling’s latest piece of artwork, which I stumbled upon this morning.  It is a beautiful drawing and next to it he’s written out the letters of his name, and next to each letter he has written some positive qualities about himself.  I cannot read them without thinking about Dave.  Because these are all the words I probably used to describe Dave when I first met him. 

The muthas couldn’t believe how much big darling looked like Dave.  They were wondering if it was okay to tell him how much he resembled his daddy?   Heck, there’s no rule book here, mostly because I haven’t written one.  So I quickly surmised that being like his daddy is pleasing to him.  We’ve had some intimate conversations at night when we’re saying prayers and talking about our day where I have told him that having daddy’s good qualities is a blessing, and that nurturing those qualities and seeing them mature and blossom unhindered by stress and addiction would allow him to grow into the man that daddy should have been.  I’ve explained that he mustn’t be afraid to be like daddy, because he has all the tools he needs to procure a different outcome.

Please Lord, let that be true.  I’ll spend my last dying breath making sure it is true.

Even though I’ve been lazy and ridiculous, I had to take down my Christmas tree and decorate for Mardi Gras before the muthas arrived.  Taking down the Christmas tree was as annoying as putting it up.  There were several seconds when I considered dousing it with gasoline and setting it ablaze.  I’m not sure how sedated I was last year when I boxed it up, because I did put it properly back into the box last year.  This year, it appears that the tree grew, and the box shrunk.  As I kicked it down the stairs and unsuccessfully tried to tape the box up, I screamed out how much, “I hate daddy” right in front of big darling.  Then I muttered something aloud about how I was pretty sure this wasn’t what God intended for the celebration of His birthday.

The muthas have tasked me with being the girl who changes Christmas.  So, no pressure there, right?  But I’m pretty sure some changes are going to be made in our house.  Rewriting the Holiday Season is going to require quite a few meetings of the Sisterhood of the Sacred Women tribe.  So stay tuned.

I always end this by asking people to vote for the Diary.  And here’s why.  I market the blog on Top Mommy because the site sends alot of readers my way every month, and vice versa.  It's a bit of a game that I choose to participate in to increase readership.   Blogging has become an enjoyable hobby for me.  But there’s another reason, and it’s a huge one.  A year ago I was standing alone on a deserted island and I didn't know a single other widow my age with kids, let alone a suicide widow.  I can’t tell you how badly it sucks to be able to relate to no one.  NO. ONE.  Ya hurd me?  Today, there is a community of people who read the Diary, and we do our best to lift one another up.  And while my ranking on Top Mommy has little bearing on my emotional status, it does affect whether advertisers want to spend money on ads.  I decided a while back that since I was doing this anyway, I’d be kinda dumb not to monetize it.  I’m a single mom with 3 growing boys.  It certainly doesn’t pay my grocery bill, but it puts some snacks in the pantry.  I’ll take what I can get.  So, there is a method to my madness.  Thanks for reading, caring, commiserating and sharing your stories with me too. 

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