Thursday, March 18, 2010
life feels like a constant tightrope walk. i recognize the importance of this time in my life, the sheer act of walking a thin line. so much risk, so much effort, so much discomfort, so much within reach, so much slipping away, so much that has always been within me, so much hope,feeling so alive on this edge. it is utterly overwhelming no matter how welcomed or necessary. sometimes i think autonomy is really an illusion, I did not set up the line, I did not make the rope. People watch from either end with an outstretched hand. I can do the best for myself, take care of myself first, fulfill my own needs, breathe steadily, stay balanced but the truth is i have not done it alone. i don't know if i would be writing these words without the loving people in my life: family, friends, strangers who opened themselves up to me. I've made more new friends in the last 6 months than the last 4 years, I am grateful beyond measure. It is the greatest gift, the opening of my eyes and heart. However, it is not easy to grieve and mourn the loss of a life you've lived for so long. It feels like rubbing up against jagged rocks in order to remove shedding skin. I asked for change, I got more than I ever imagined. I am powerful in my ability to manifest, I accept I made this all happen. Everything happens for a reason, to see this it takes a backward reflection not a future prophecy. I see now that she was there long ago, perhaps just a dream that lived inside me, it's not fair to her person that she disappointed me. I saw my self, my dream, my ideals and to be honest I still do. That was one of the many fatal flaws. I recognize now that this feeling of something dying within me, this immense grief has to do with what has been in me all along. The transition from one life into another, allowing the dream to die and opening up a space to actually live it. I know why I fell, why I chose to, I loved for who I was. Who I am still lives and still loves. Now I have little to give others in terms of material and objects, any sense of societal security. Clearly now I only have myself to give. It took losing everything to know what that means. I could intellectualize it but now I know what it feels like, sounds like, looks like. Through this I've learned how to articulate my needs, to loosen the chains, I am being opened to the flow of exchange. Clarity comes with a healing price; mourning. I wish I had that gift to give then and the spaciousness to receive endlessly, I knew in that one area she was right. Retrospectively, it could not have been any other way, there are so many reasons why. So now, I write to express myself, to one day be heard and to be understood.... by whom I do not know. It's healing to see myself again, so long overdue. The wind of each day brings abundant smiles to my face, just as it trembles the tightrope of my heart. I step gently and intentionally...looking forward, not down. open arms, open hearts await.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
"Just as you were about to step on it, I asked you: 'Do you want to cross the footbridge to me?'-Immediately, you did not want to any more; and when I asked you again, you remained silent. Since then mountains and torrential rivers and whatever separates and alienates have been cast between us, and even if we wanted to get together, we couldn't. But when you now think of that little footbridge, words fail you and you sob and marvel."
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Friday, March 12, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Who would have known that an 'I ' and a 'U' was enough to trigger such an emotional response...I knew, I felt it when I first said those words to you. It is fitting that you use words to counter what I say in paint, in silence. We always wanted to collaborate, the power couple, but here we are. Powerful in our creativity, our ability to hurt each other, yet no longer in the form of a pair...we are as distant as the expression on your face, in life and on canvas. The pain so close it mocks my skin, the paper thin flesh that carries inscriptions, the story of this love so far gone. You speak with intentions and I speak with visuals. This lonely bending heart remembers love, it knew its depth, it knew two breaths. The colors faded into hues as cold as the day I could see my breath suspended and still before you, the ice queen, the ruler of her skull-sized kingdom. The gaze you speak of is not mine, we are mirrors remember. In the end it reflects nothing on me. The subjective concerns between you and the gazing object are yours and yours alone.
you landed on my limbs, a little poet bird. your light frame defied gravity and made my branches bow. me...a kind hearted tree, unknowingly awaiting the paper mill. how was i to see i'd become vellum so quickly, i was looking to the clouds for cracks and openings. your tiny talons inscribed your presence.. each word, each breath.. onto me. my body palimpsest....my heart a manuscript. look closely and you will see me. i am every leaf, every season, every ring, all the love i feel inward, sink downward and send outward into the sky. if you could have held me up to the sun you could have seen me. I have transformed into pages that reveal words that tell new stories...create new beliefs. love is beautiful when you see it that way, when we want it that way. you are there on my surface, the deepest etching, the newest entry telling our tale. i too want to let go, to know what that means for me. i want to feel the dance of swaying in the wind, the passion of drinking from the river. i want to see the beauty in you flying away into the horizon, the bird that built a nest in my leaves for a season. now that nest is empty and i will house it until the wind takes it from me. i never intended to keep you like a cage, but your eyes reflected bars not branches. I wept the day I understood that is how you saw me. you were the loveliest bird to me and I just wanted to be your poet tree, naively I wanted to be home to each seasons nest, to continue to grow more branches and leaves. I am an old oak tree, perhaps I make rings too slowly. Instead I am reduced to pulp and paper…parchment for poetry. What I would give to see the blue around the shape of your wings again. To feel every breeze as a breath, every dropping leaf a relief, falling whispers beauty…a song of love promised on the feathers of a bird who arrived and departed from an expanding horizon. How I loved you then..how I love you still. Is today the day little bird?
Do we know what we say? What we write? What we think? What we paint? What we etch into each other’s soul? He said I hold a big responsibility in my hands. I hold all of history and all of eternity. He said be wise, be well, good luck. I found myself wanting to believe him, his observations, his opinions, his theory that women don’t find themselves until their thirties. If correct, then I am just beginning to level out. Is that what this is? This loss, this death I feel, this death I want. Acceptance found in a random conversation up in the clouds. He had more faith in me than I often have in myself, honesty in the beauty and ignorance of a first impression. Perhaps we’d be wise to listen to our gut more, perhaps we’d see ourselves better if we woke up each morning and gave ourselves the gift of an optimistic first glance. He was kind and honest, and offered me a moment of connection. Those are the moments we live for, brief or prolonged. Did we have this? Can we remember it? I wish to walk away with grace. I wish to tie an invisible thread around your coat button. Someday I’d like to tug on it and see if it is still attached. Only when the time is right. He said maybe it still could be you. I laughed nervously. He said he loved a Whistler, because of it’s subtlety. I’d like to see that painting someday to understand what he meant.
2. 18. 2010