I live my life through the words I write
The record spins.
Always spinning, it never stops
because it’s broken.
Spinning inside my head, inside my chest,
though at first the music sounds beautiful,
it’s off-key.
Spinning before my eyes
the people, creatures,
juggling balls flying through the air,
everything is moving.
“By trying to control everything
you end up controlling nothing.
Not that you can control anything, anyway.”
The record keeps spinning.
The record keeps playing.
Broken.
Playing timid
has kept me safe
behind the walls of smiles and acquiescence
for a long time.
Eventually the walls come down
to cast glimpses of ferocity and desire
upon the shocked faces
of those who expected less from me.
They can hardly believe it.
Their painted image of me, shattered.
For me, the focal,
at last I reach expansion.
Expanding beyond me, beyond them,
for me.
May we envision our lives
as traveling along a winding road,
a road that stretches straight for a while,
then spirals back around and sideways,
revisiting places already passed through
with new eyes.
We come back, time and again
to cities we believed had been conquered
and left desolate
to see them flourishing with new life.
They look different now,
as do we feel.
With each footstep connecting us to the Earth,
may we trust the path unraveling before us.
Though we may not agree, or understand,
we can surrender.
Call upon our experience to guide us
through the new, and familiar,
we encounter.
I came home to my body today.
There she was, waiting for me
with an embrace to wrap me twice around.
I listened to what she needed,
I shared with her my desires,
we worked together.
Partners.
I had forgotten what her love felt like,
how much she has to give.
I remember now,
now that I’m back home.
Raindrops fall from the sky
soft and quiet at first,
then heavy and loud,
washing away the collections of dirt and dust,
gifting the ground, and all that rises from it,
with a new heartbeat.
I hear voices in my head.
They tell me what I’m supposed to do and when.
When I don’t listen, they scream at me
until I conform,
giving them the victory.
I recognize them, I know who they belong to,
familiarity offers no advantages.
I can hear the rain through closed windows,
rhythmic.
I wonder if it knows how much power it carries,
how much we depend on it.
Open the door to immerse my body
in this falling magic.
Wash away the voices down the gutter
to hear my own at last.
This is how I find peace today.
Sweat dripping down my forehead,
gathering underneath my eyes and down my neck,
spreading out and over my arms
like water spilled from a glass
reaching out across the floor.
Thoughts of hot, running water and soap
traveling over my body
fill my mind through a vinyasa,
though I’m supposed to be focused on my breath.
Slowing down my breath and body
into the stillness of shavasana,
I rest in the final resting pose,
resting.
I roll over to the right side and push myself upright
to find my skin dry, the sweat evaporated,
leaving my skin with an energetic film
reminding me of the work I have done
for me.
I’ll keep it on my skin a while longer.
What worked for me then
was what I needed then.
What I need now
may look wildly different
and that’s OK.
My needs evolve with me
as I do.
Trees tall and green, with
trunks wide, adjacent the sidewalk.
There isn’t a spot of pure sunlight;
only small bursts of light
falling to the ground between the towering leaves.
Each house is different.
Color, size, shape, layout, accents –
oh, the accents –
make every house its own.
Front yards filled with flowers and gardens,
or smooth with paving stones.
Verandas outfitted with couches and chairs,
or a plain front door with stucco siding.
Front steps hanging on to the last inch of paint,
or built strong of stone.
Shades of brown, grey, or pops of bold purple, red, green.
A neighborhood unforgettable.
Every house catches my eye in its own way,
all cozied together, only a few feet of separation.
Blink, and you’ll miss one;
you’ll miss a work of art.
It’s a funny thing
to realize, before my eyes
the true motives behind the plan
I had crafted for days,
perfecting every detail in my mind’s eye.
The truth stung me like a wasp.
Still, it hurts.
Wading through the murky waters
of words that don’t make sense together
but I write them together anyway
hoping they can make it work
but realizing on the second read-through
that no, it doesn’t work.
Wading through the muddy waters
realizing how muddy they can get
after spending time on dry land for a while,
I cannot expect to jump right in
to the crystal clear blue lake on the first page,
or the fifth.
Trudging through the mud and the muck,
the frustrations, shame and self-doubt
squish out from underneath my boots
to float up and around me in a haze.
At least I’m getting them up and out
to meet them in the eye.
With each step, the mud recedes,
and the clarity expands.
Just keep going,
just keep writing.
Dawning Words 