I live my life through the words I write
Recognizing
moments
of my nervous system
easefully resting,
my lungs breathing
slow and deep,
my mind clearing,
my heart
opening.
Recognizing
circumstances
welcoming
and embracing me
into this calmness.
Recognizing
the time spent away from here
and the nourishment
in this
reunion.
Starting with short, clean,
clear-polished slates,
twice or thrice
daily lotioning,
keeping mind and body
meaningfully occupied,
together
can grow
a new path through the forest.
My therapist
encouraged me to practice making decisions
faster
and based on my instincts.
Not every decision needs to be
weighed and analyzed
for hours
before reaching a conclusion –
a novel concept
for my brain to comprehend.
I took her advice;
I could hear her voice in my head
gently pushing me
out of my head
and into my body.
Warm air, sunshine-soaked sky
lured me to be outside
and move,
while listening.
I want to walk through the park,
I want to explore a new trail,
I want to recreate a small sliver of wild
I chase and revel in elsewhere.
I laugh at myself
as I walk along the trail
at this series of decisions
being the most impulsive I have been
in months.
When did I become so scared of living?
As I age
I have come to know grief
between each of the five letters
and beyond the formality of a definition.
I assume we all do.
Grief has its own personality,
an ability to consume your chest,
your muscles, your bones,
embodying the deepest of pains
as you sit submerged
below the water’s surface.
Grief has its own agenda,
prioritizing its need for attention
above your own,
announcing itself loudly
interrupting anything and everything else,
bringing your world to a stop.
Grief ebbs and flows
but never really leaves us
instead
it changes alongside and within us
forcibly holding our hands,
refusing to let go.
Grief has become a familiar sensation
in my body;
I hardly know how to live without it
and, call it irony,
grieve for the past where we had only
met briefly, in passing,
gifting me time to live in naivety.
In my head
I know I am strong
and I can endure,
but in my heart
sometimes
it hurts
beyond what seems to be my capacity.
I know, now,
it’s in those moments
I need to love myself more
than I instinctively consider necessary.
As I walk hand-in-hand with grief
I’m coming to understand
grief encourages recognition
of what we hold the most dear
and in a way,
even in the briefest of moments,
grief can be beautiful.
Even in the briefest of moments.
My mind feels full.
Full of characters:
their personalities,
their thoughts,
and dialogue exchanged with others.
Full of phrases
simple and complex
to live in stories
or essays
or poems.
Full of scenes
replaying in memoried fragments
requesting reimagination
and depersonalization.
To empty my mind
on to the page
requires a vulnerability
that, right now,
feels insurmountable.
Fear of pain, of exposure,
of inadequately capturing
my imagination
with words.
Acknowledgement is the first step.
When my body talks to me, I listen to her. I listen to her, and I believe her.
When my body told me I was safe with him, I believed her.
When my body told me I was not safe, and I needed to get out of the situation, I believed her, and I ran.
When I received declarations of love that did not resonate with my body’s perception of truth, I believed her distrust.
When my body ached and longed and dreamed of the situation being just a little bit different, like how I had imagined it in my mind, she allowed me to play along for awhile, because she could see how much I wanted to believe, and how tightly I was holding on. But when she murmured over and over again that the situation would never change without me sacrificing my personal integrity, I believed her, and slowly, eventually, let it go.
When my body shows the beginnings of a sore throat and the quiet introduction of a cough, I believe her and I take care of her.
When my body initiates the slow and soft hum of building pain extending across my pelvic floor, I believe her message that my bleed is coming. She has never let me down before.
When, on the screen, my body showed an organism too small, with a heart beating too slow, I believed her message that she was doing everything she could, but it would not be enough.
When, after the second procedure, I felt like my complete, whole, ‘normal’ self, I believed my body was feeling that way for a reason; she doesn’t play mind games with me.
When my body expresses hunger, I believe her. When she requests movement, I believe her and get my heart and lungs working. When she experiences discomfort, I tune in and solve my way through the problem until I reach the heart of it.
When my body pushes me out beyond my comfort zone with insistence that I will grow if I do, I believe her, and do my best to push aside my anxiety.
When my body calls for artistic expression, I believe and honor her requests through writing, photography, vocal release, and decorating my skin with ink.
When my body knows there’s something worth fighting for, she stirs up the energy I need to speak my truth and advocate for others. I believe she knows, better than my mind does, what is important to me.
When my body whispers to me her need for rest, for stillness and quiet, I believe her, and give her what she needs.
When, over the last few months, I felt subtle shifts taking place in my body, I believed she was trying to tell me something, even if I couldn’t understand it.
When I learned I would need to undergo more testing before re-entering treatment, I heard my body say quietly, under her breath, that there’s no guarantee this test will have normal results. She told me to wait until I didn’t have other concurrent commitments, but at the same time, that I should have it done soon for there’s no point in unnecessary waiting. She reminded me of the futility in detailed planning for months in the future, because the first test needs to be clear before the other dominoes can fall into place, and I haven’t had that test yet. I believed her, but I still held on to hope that perhaps, she was worrying unnecessarily, like my mind tends to do. That for the first time, she might be wrong.
My body wasn’t worrying unnecessarily. She was right and proved, once again, how I can and must always believe her.
Writing on weekends
words flowing from the stillness
my mind exploring.
My counselor,
her name is Marcela,
assigned homework for me
during my last therapy session.
She said I had to go out
buy a notebook of visual appeal
alongside a high-grade pen.
The idea was to stimulate my creativity
with a notebook I liked to look at
and a pen I liked to write with
to make the experience enjoyable and enticing
to draw me in
to create for the sake of creating
to help me re-connect with this part of me
that, at times, seems to be fading.
So
one day after work I went to the bookstore.
I looked for a journal to catch my eye.
Funny how, at the same time,
my mind automatically eliminated some
because they looked too expensive.
Or,
I would find one that looked pretty
but my mind would convince me it wasn’t right
because of the size
because of the binding
because of the line spacing
because of the ‘fanciness’
because of the price.
If any journal held these qualities too well,
I told myself,
I would feel inherent pressure
to create content of high esteem, high value,
worthy enough to live between its covers
thereby creating more pressure
and likely, shying away from
scribbling out thoughts
for the mere purpose of releasing them.
What should have been instinctual
and taken seconds
took me minutes and minutes
standing in front of the journals
wrestling with my mind.
At last, I landed on this one.
Different than any I’ve had before
a thought-provoking cover
and on sale.
I chose a package of pens
I knew I would like
even though I could clearly see
the dozens of unused, good-enough pens
waiting at home.
A new journal
a new pen
starting a new journey
while I was away from home
in the mountains
looking for a reset
seemed fitting.
Connecting the stars within me
into constellations
bringing me back to myself
one page at a time
ink and words flowing.
I trust
that right now
my body and mind need rest.
I trust
that my body and mind
are recuperating, in alignment with their needs.
I trust
that feeling good, feeling happy,
tells me my body and mind
are receiving what they need
and that it’s OK for me to feel good right now.
I trust
that I do not need to stay in the misery
to justify or exemplify
the pain residing still in my body
for it may never leave.
I trust
that I am right where I need to be.
I trust
that my body and mind will tell me
in their own way
when they are ready, again.
When you share an intention with someone else, usually, that carries with it an added layer of accountability. Now, not only have you given a voice to the thoughts traveling around inside your head, but the voice has landed upon the ears of other people. It’s not just you anymore.
But what do you do, when you want to change your mind?
You’re no longer the only person that knows. Other people know. What will they think of you, knowing that while you seemed so sure, so prepared just a little while ago, now you’ve retreated back to the timid and apprehensive version of yourself that believes they can handle the journey up this mountain on their own?
They might make you out to be a fraud. They might believe you are too scared to face whatever you think you need to face. They might think less of you, they might consider themselves to be superior to you. They may call you weak, or arrogant, or in over your head.
Or, they might just understand what you’re going through.
Only the people who have traveled a similar path can understand the terror, the uncertainty, the vulnerability, the bravery that comes with sharing your needs with someone other than yourself. It requires a new kind of strength.
Admitting that you need to talk to someone, admitting that you have reached a new point where you feel more fear than excitement for your future, admitting that you don’t know where to go on your own, admitting that you need help – these don’t make you any less than. In fact, they make you more than. Feeling uncertainty about your decision after you’ve ‘taken your stance’ is normal.
Use your knowing of others’ awareness of your current experience not as a rope tying you to an anchor, but as a rope connecting you to a lifeboat; available to you when you need some additional support.
You will be OK. You have a fleet of lifeboats ready and waiting to carry you to safety.
Dawning Words 