Sunday, June 17, 2018

Grammatical Misstep Pardoned

The Little Princess That Could

Denver if You Dare... Denver Dabblings Part II

So many roles open in the never ending and always twisted drama of the ERC here in the heart of Denver...the city that... fill in the blank. Never sleeps? No, Denver surely sumbers. Is Windy? Nope, no polititians of whom to speak nor strong breezes to feel. Denver, the city that...eats, perhaps? Crunches? It is quite the crunchy granola town here, minus the nail salons and such. The city that... alas, I forfeit my silly game of mad hatter and madder maddest libs.

But as usual, I digress.

So many open roles in this genre-less play of life and less-than such. The casting call remains incessantly and neverendingly open. Come on over, the door is er, well, it's locked but open in spirit I muse. The brickishly heavy door is open for staff of all colors, shapes, dispositions and egos. The cafe is open for all who lust to eat...religious and not, female and not, west coast, east coast, middle and up, seventeen, nineteen, fifty or more. Come on over, come on in, join the scene and welcome in, it's a festive six a day party!

Sarcasm, snarkasm, sassiness, too. Don't miss out, it's up to you. 

Report to duty, report to eat, report to sleep, it can't be beat.

Trust me here and trust me so, and if you're not sure you need it, don't say no.

Treatment is harsh, can eat you alive, can lick your soul once, twice or five.

But if you give up, if you trust the process not, you can't find out what you've really got.

For what's in your soul and what's in your heart, it's all stuck in there until you start.

Start your process and your journey alike, for until you do, it's the worst kind of psych.

Trust me for real, for I know from my life, that life is not life without pain or strife.

We struggle, we eat, we breathe, we cry, but a lack of all of these is reason to die.

Open your heart, Madonna once sang, how right she was, open your life with a bang.

Open your mind and open your soul, let out your darkness, the light makes you whole.

The spirit is gentle, but it isn't immortal, hold it in your heart, be gracious and cordial.

We must treat ourselves like we treat our best friends, like we treat our mothers and daughters, love to the end.

I'll say it again and I'll say it with gust, if you question your needs, I tell you, you must.

We have one life to live, but many paths to trod, there's always time to change the road you're on.

Led Zeppelin sings to look to the west, to change your path to the one that's your best.

I know a lot of things but what I know for sure, don't ever look back, it's forward that's the cure.


Thursday, May 31, 2018

Clean White Sheets

A very dear friend once asked me several years back, "If you could have anything in the world, no matter the cost, what would it be?"

I pondered for a few minutes, thinking about the endless options that this open-ended question/scenario could entail... no matter the cost, nothing off limits. While I was thinking, my friend answered what she would want, an answer I entertain many would echo--travel the world, see new places and sights, then boat for a stretch. I nodded, smiling at her worldly and sophisticated answer.

"That sounds nice," I replied, thinking of how that response would simply never cross my mind nor exit my lips because it is not something I have ever or currently desire.

She nodded.

I pondered my response and desire for a few moments more until what I wanted to possess came to me as gently and easily as a spring breeze graces a bed of roses.

"I'd like a clean apartment with never-ending and always clean, fresh white towels, clean white sheets, and never having to do anything myself to make these things happen."

"That's what you want, Rachel? So, like to live in a hotel of sorts? Is that it?" she clarifyingly inquired.

"Mmhmm, yeah, that is what I want."

"Okay, fair enough."

The conversation on our "big dreams and lofty lives" (quotes clearly intentional here) ended then, at that. My if-you-could-have-anything-in-the-world dream, however, did not end there, nor did it leave me...ever.

And now, as I sit on this chair in Denver, just feet away from my bedroom, in which the white sheets are constantly and seemingly never-endingly changed from fresh to even fresher on a daily basis, the conversations of days passed strikes me. The bathroom, too, just a few feet away, rife with closets of perfectly folded, clean fresh towels on a daily, nightly, and all-the-time-ly basis.

No matter the cost, no matter the struggle, the irony boils my being as the stiflingly hot Colorado air infiltrates my now mostly inside soul.

So here I am and here I sit on this light blue chair looking up at the lighter blue evening sky in the West (Led Zeppelin reference if you please) on this hellishly hot night. I muse at my own circle of wishes for things attainable and yet previously seemingly not so, my cycle of thoughts and dreams and days and years, and the circle of life and lives.

With love, grace, humility and authenticity,
Rachel (fill in the blank) Berg

rbb or rvb...tbd

Thursday, May 10, 2018

The Dot: Denver Dabblings, Part I...

...the beginning of which, while written, shall remain unposted, for now.


How a whole life can become the dot.

Always chasing the proverbial dragon, whether heroin or not (like A, for names shall remain anonymous for obvious reasons), the dragon still breathes fire and the fire is still hot. Another injection of heroin or another red eye from Starbucks, another hour of cardio or another glass of wine or sake as hot as the dragon's fire. Another phone, another bag another shot of Fix-It-Adrenaline, a yoga class more, a pill too many, an iPhone, an iPod, an iPad to spare, a puff of weed, a meal too few, pick your poison, for the poison matters not.

"twas brillig and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wave;
all mimsy were the borogoves and the mome raths outgrabe.

beware the jabberwock, my son! the jaws that bite, the claws that catch;
beware the jubjub bird, and shun the frumious bandersnatch!" fitting, said me to Alice today as these words reappeared out of the clear purple sky into my now brighter brain today. How utterly fitting that these appeared before the dragon themed drama class today. But yes, they did.

Beware the Jabberwock, my dear girl, the jaws the bite, the claws that scratch...and all of that and all the rest.

Yes, beware the dragon, my love, chase it not, leave it be, the dragon will bite, its fire will burn, inside its lair may you never live again. Leave it alone, heed the invisible do not enter signs for the red warnings they bear, leave it be like the black box you failed to leave be years ago. You opened the matte black box, with its scraggly tied dirty ugly ribbon, you didn't leave it there, instead caved to its falsified lure, and my what transpired as the nasty consequence of evil. But anger not, dear girl, we live, we learn, we breathe, we eat. Eat, Pray, Love, like the cliche of cliches but yes. Anger not, we learn from our lives, we love from our lures, we write as we see and we see through our stories.

But I digress.

This time, the morphed matte-black-box-to-dragon, may you, my love, may you not wander through the valley of the shadow of death, may you leave the dragon to boil in its own lair, may YOU grant you the strength to stay away, remain outside the lines of the always-pulling-inward-bullseye target, for therein, little girl, therin lies the most dangerous place within the fire, the center of the rings, the darkest of the darks, the hottest hell of the dragon's fire...therein lies the valley of death, on which you mustn't and shall not walk.

To go from always chasing the dragon, to seeing the dragon, leaving him there outside the door of your festive party, leaving him as the uninvited do this may be the most difficult task of all, precious one, but do not fear, for you, yes you, you alone have the power to stay outside the lines, avoid the dot, leave the door locked and let the uninvited dragon alone to burn in its own rotten hot hell. Yes, precious living one, you can do it and doing it you are. So keep on the path, let the arrow lead you forward, let the light shine in your favor and not against. Let others hold your hand and not your hair, let them stroke your arm and trust their process, instead of the fucked up process of days of old.

You, precious girl, you got this and you have this, just remember to beware the jabberwock, the dragon, the matte black box and hold fast and tight onto the magical beautiful brass key you picked up from the carpet on the 5th floor. Hold onto the key that unlocks the door to the sunny side of the street and the brightly lit cortex, the key to empty the darkness from within to make room for the light.

*The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Saturday, April 21, 2018

Dignity Floats

Never allow yourself to be treated in a way that you know to be wrong.

People will slither into the crevices of your privacy in ways that you didn't see coming, through the tiniest slits in your being. They will ask questions of you when you are vulnerable and latch onto your forced answers like an ant latches onto a fallen bread crumb. Aha, there it is - hold on tight, little humpback. Yes, ants and people alike will do that. Latch on, hatch on, question answer, what's that you say, Case letter A? But no, I'm Rachel, not Case A or Case B. I live and I laugh, I write and I muse, I eat and I pray. I am here, I am dear, and I know this much is true.

As the always brilliant Ms. Winfrey states, what I know to be true is this. I have been up and I have been down, as have many of us. I have carried the weight, and the lack thereof, of adulthood... at times well, at others less well. The ups and downs of the strife of life and just that: phases of waves of strength and weakness. I know this much is true. And here I sit, stand, and lay down and out in a lower tidal wave, wading my way out slowly but surely. My floaties still work, my umbrella still stands, the waves are strong but so is my soul. The sand is dark and wet under my still pedicured toes and on it I trod on, toward the shore of Fifth Avenue and 27th streets. The sand there is firmer and drier, and the waves don't roll, they stop on Madison.

Here I sit, here I pivot, here I lean and jump over the puddles, small and fierce, determined and tired. I can jump and run, but I need a floatie at the end of the journey, as do we all. For isn't that the journey, the roll tide of life, the sand beneath my feet, and the green grass that flows underneath the flight of the beautiful white heron of my soul. That is the journey, my friends, the unstraight and unnarrow, the fleeting moment of existence that we call life. We drift up and down, and we do our best.

I know this much and I know this much is true: I do my best, I cannot do more.  The heron flies above me, in the aisles of the grocery store, at the beach, in the trenches and twirls of my mind. She flies gracefully, stroking my hair and cheek, squeezing my sometimes fleshier than others, pulkies, and pasting my cheeks. Her wrinkly elegantly ballet slippers manicured hand holds mine in hers, her rings now gracing the fingers of my own hand instead of hers. They are beautiful rings, yet I long to take them off and put them back on the darker, older fingers of the now flying white heron,

Never let anyone treat you in a way you know is not right. "You always have your breath." the blonde banged dove waxes. "You always have your dignity." the brunette wise woman reminds herself.

That is right. Never ever let anyone compromise your dignity.

The sand is hot and the waves are strong, the concrete jungle is angry and the train cars packed. But your dignity lives on, your breath maintains.

Be still, be true, hold onto you.

Never let anyone treat you with inappropriate disrespect. No matter their title.

Thursday, April 5, 2018


there is no greater injury than that which takes something away which was already missing.

or, perhaps there is... taking it away when, although not full, it was still partially there and the dim light it shone into the dusk was so bright the dusk ceased to exist for a time. 

dimming a light that is already on three quarters off, is like slamming the door in the face of a toddler, taking the wine soaked paper towel from the tiny wailing baby boy at his bris, rescinding the grandest promise only a few minutes after making it, indian giving the longest desired toy, easing a muscle ache then giving it back, scratching an itch followed by wisping the itchiest wispiest feather right on it with the lightest possible stroke. dimming someone else's already minimally perceptible light without asking if the light is needed is the meanest human act that can be taken. 

tell me i'm frustrating, implore me to do or say, ask me to go or beg me to stay. whatever you do, don't dim my light when i walk out of the room. i can't see the way back with it on so low -- the walls are in my way now.

cc bloom and hillary the ill, call me a cliche, i am, but they say it well and they say it true -- you took away our friendship without even discussing it with me... i trusted it, i believed in it, but you didn't, and now it's gone. 

a light switch is a friendship is a family tree, is a doctor patient bond is a mother a daughter, a pair over here and a pair over there, a blonde and a brunette is a sweetheart, a honey, a bunny. is a circle, a square, hearts and limbs in despair. but most of all, a light switch is that which brings us out of slumber to awakenness, and turn it off without asking, my day is now over.
turning off that flicker which was already dimmed... flick that.