There is no way to show up
in the circle,
as one could or might,
as fully as one can,
with the context and wisdom
one may have
in a single moment ...
and ensure safety
from others’ judgment
of our belonging.
It is an acute kind of thing.
It comes in
like a freshly sharpened arrow,
piercing the tenderest place
where I tie the myself to the world.
These are not the same arrows,
that severed my sense
of belonging
so long ago.
We change.
It's what nature does.
A sprout.
A bud.
A tendrilling curious root,
fortified by a sun it does not know personally.
We change.
Hollowing wood,
where busy ants make a new home.
Dry, thin branches,
perfect for peeling into a bird's nest.
In our demise,
a new purpose,
a new way of supporting life.
What if you begin within?
Tending to
the seed of doubt,
that you perceive,
has grown
gnarly and cutting.
I wonder what might happen
if you turn towards
this seed
with a gentle curiosity?
I have been trying to befriend
the worry that taunts my heart.
Worry is like a ravenous hummingbird
in the dead of winter.
While I cannot make flowers bloom,
to provide nourishment,
I can offer sweetness
to bridge the gap until spring.
Do you worry too?
I wonder what sweetness your heart
may be soothed by?
I wonder how you might
recognize me
in the sway of my hips.
Mesmerizing.
Click
Click
Click
Like a metronome.
We carry our pain
unique to our stories.
For some,
it's the spirit,
denied and debated.
For others,
the heart,
dismissed and degraded.
This body.
A body I call, “mine,”
but she doesn’t belong to ‘me.’
We belong to each other,
she and I.
There is no ownership here.
It is not a soul
in a body
or a body
with a soul.
I awoke from a dream
that I was staving off a bear
with a hollow door
unhinged from its frame.
Fear transformed into
deep-in-the-bones exhaustion.
I’ve been holding this mask of a door,
fighting back this honey-drunk bear
for much longer than I care to admit
I see you there,
hiding in my shadow.
Timid and shaking.
You don’t recognize me,
do you?
That is okay,
there is no rush.
In fact,
all we have is the seductive illusion of time.
Try less.
Produce less.
Do less.
Feel into all the tender places in your being
where chatter of unworthiness, not-good-enoughness, and otherness
have seared what was once delicate into calluses
over the places where your spirit
connects you to ALL THAT IS.
Oh, my dear.
You have so much more power than you know.
You can pull the tidal waves towards your enemies,
or, you can will them away from shore.
And who are these enemies?
Are they fully formed,
illuminated
beings with glinting weapons
and snarling teeth?
Look here,
to the place where there are no flashpoints.
Look here,
to the place where you might feel exposed,
surrendering in your gaze.
Turn your head from the noise,
from the relentless pops and shocks.
Release the hooks and haste, my beloved sweet child.
When searching for keys in a dark room;
turn on the light.
When searching for understanding of a person or situation;
turn on the light.
You can continue to search in the dark,
but imagine all the bumps and bruises you can avoid
just by turning on the light.
Little strands billowing in the breeze.
Innocuous.
These are my strands.
Pieces of myself that have come loose.
Pieces of myself that have yet to be tied.
Sunlight catches them in golden hues.
Enchanted are these pieces of me.
Dancing in rhythmic waves so joyfully.
home.
where my feet slip out of shoes and into warm, fuzzy socks.
i find myself circling, like a dog pressing down the head-high grass.
it is here, each night, that i can't help but consider you.