“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan


macgyvering my life

time will heal, and just let go.
open your pretty fingers,  nails polished, cuticles perfect, and just let go.
let it drop let it fall and keep walking don't look back it will be all right.

the way i once thought.  before stuff happened.  when i saw letting go as a photograph: bare feet, dress in a spring breeze, an arm, a hand, fingers open, a slip of paper falling to the ground.  how beautiful letting go seemed.  how wonderful to be that empty hand, freed from the weight of carrying whatever-it-was around.  and though i still see the picture, that hand falling back into the natural rhythm of walking, the sigh of relief, the loosening of tight shoulders, it makes me laugh.

i started the year knowing dismantle was my word, knowing that if you want to rebuild, you have to tear some stuff down.  i tweeted those words, and a friend offered me the loan of a hammer, because that's what real friends do.  here,  they say, i have this extra hammer, and also some old nails i'll never use, and i'll look around for that stapler.   they also know to step back and let you do the work.

letting go is hard damn work.  letting go means walking around the thing-that-must-be-gone for a long time. looking at it from every possible angle, in every possible light.  it means sitting with your hurting heart and whispering apologies and explanations for how you got this way, and it means living with the not knowing how to fix it, but picking up a sledge hammer and knocking a hole in the wall anyway.  it means crying when you see that hole, but my god, it means you've begun and there's no going back, and it means you begin to smile.

dismantling requires tools you don't have, or tools you think you need but really don't, because most of what you need is probably shoved in the wayback of your junk drawer, old things you've forgotten about.  those things, and your hands full of broken fingernails, and a foot willing to kick out and over those things that need to be kicked.  when they fall to the ground and the dust settles, you'll need different tools to rebuild, and you probably think you don't have those either, but trust me, you do.  you don't need a new pink anything.  you can borrow from friends.

this is real life.  this is getting dirty and sweaty and swearing when a splinter finds you.  it's old cowboy boots that will need a new sole when you're done.


not such a pretty word.
but it's where i'll be this year.
dismantling words, ideas, notions, preconceptions, betrayal, heartbreak, grief,
summer days and late mornings.

tearing down the walls.
kicking out the jams.



  1. Great post D. Dismantling was 2013 for me. Unraveling too. Screaming and crying and stomping my feet. And you're so right, you have to dismantle in order to rebuild. 2014 is about rebuilding now. Creating foundations. You can do it.

  2. i love this word, this plan, these fighting-back phrases.

    and already, i love what you've built.

    and already, i kind of like 2014 :)


  3. I tried to comment earlier, but it didn't feel like it posted, so if it shows up, please dismantle it.

    The most used Latin term in Alchemy was "Solve et Coagula" meaning dissolve and coagulate. I liked the concept, but always hated that term. You say it so much better. Dismantle is a fine word. Tear it down!

  4. i waited to post to read this a few more times, gaining something i lost the first few times.
    dismantle is a good word. my word of 'stretch' pulled me to almost breaking in 2013. now i search for a new word. but whatever the word...it's meaning tis ' to let it go'. a journey of my past 4 years. sometimes accomplished, sometimes not. always a challenge. AND i love the image of the face silently watching from the wood door.
    dismantle is definitely a good word. a particularly good write emmatree. i copied it to read again and again. to read when i need your hammer. perhaps when i am silently raging.


come. sit under the emma tree & let's talk. i have cookies . . .