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.
The past four days
have been a gift.
Coming here,
to the office desk space
beneath the east-facing window
in the back bedroom of the house.
Here,
in a space both virtual and physical
I have reunited with her,
my creativity,
the part of me prone to playing
hide and seek
for now, has settled with me.
Notebook pages
have been filled with ink,
Word documents
have word counts spanning thousands
and all due
to my first-ever writing retreat.
Virtual connection
with writers ranging ages,
provinces and experience,
helped me feel safe
to feel, to release,
and to create,
with much more yet to come.
Deep and heartfelt appreciation to the Saskatchewan Writers’ Guild for creating this opportunity.
More than anyone else from my past
I think of you.
I wonder where life has taken you,
whether it has pulled or guided you
to wherever you are now.
I wonder how much of your personality
would be exactly the same
as it was ten years ago,
like I remember.
I wonder of all the experiences
you have lived through
and how curious I am, and would be,
to hear about them.
I wonder at what it would be like
to see you again.
I wonder how those first few moments
of our reunion
would be filled.
Would there be tentativeness?
Would there be liberation?
Would there be comfort?
I wonder how those last few moments
of our reunion
would be filled.
Would there be longing?
Would there be satisfaction?
Would there be a strengthened friendship?
More than anyone else from my past
I think of you
and wonder
if you wonder these things about me, too.
Digging out the key from the depths of my pocket
and opening wide the little metal door
I receive a sign, a symbol,
that something greater waits for me,
something so great it could not live within
this little metal box.
Hand-delivered to me is a cardboard box.
I recognize it instantly.
My heart leaps beyond my rib cage,
my mouth explodes into a smile
and my skin turns hot and clammy
as I take the box in my hands.
A corner is missing, exposing a corner of pages
within: pages I know, and love, and made.
You’re here.
I tear open the box,
gently extracting the stack of papers,
including four new ones written by someone else.
I feel everything.
I feel tears spring from my eyes
at the compliments,
I feel my head nod and mind expand
at the critiques,
I feel a deep exhale escape my mouth
at the suggested path forward,
I feel my heart race and palms sweat
at the positive encouragement.
I feel safe, and calm, and reunited.
I squeeze the stack of papers
close to my chest, just like she did.
This is coming home to myself.
People come and they go
at the tables next to us.
Young, old, male, female,
I could offer only simple descriptions
when my focus is you.
A reunion of sorts
with chances for real conversation
months in the making.
The hours pass
and tables turn over
until no one but us is here.
Time is never enough
until it has to be.
Finally here and ready to see you
better late than never,
the air fills with chatter and laughter.
This is what I have been missing.
Skies and snow
must also feel this warmth and love,
sticking, layering, to the world outside
like I wish to do here,
in your home.
Stick and stay.
Fighting against the disappearing sun
to stay longer, keep the moment alive,
come departures
too soon.
Embrace the space
which has come between us,
growing wider and deeper each day
until now,
our reunion.
Tell me of you, and I’ll you of me,
learning of new and remembering of old
until the space disappears.
Back to the way we were,
two peas back into our pod.
I was lost,
tangled in the seaweed of the deep, dark waters,
praying for a chance
to gasp in oxygen until my lungs burst,
yearning for someone to extend a hand,
until today.
Dawning Words 