Month: June 2016

Boxes & Bowls

Everything I write lately would put cornflakes to sleep. I try not to force it; I know it never works. I just need to show up and maybe something will magically rise, like tiny rainbow Trix bobbing to the surface.

These empty vessels where spoons hold air and stomachs growl concern me. I hate it when things get silent, and I don’t know where my next artistic bite will come from. I’m old enough to know it’s not permanent but still all that blank milky space is taunting me. The cupboards seem bare.

Which is strange, because a bazillion boxes are filling my head. I have boxes crammed with experience, (raisin bran), boxes full of fields (shredded wheat), boxes full of wishes, (lucky charms). I have boxes stacked with laughter (cheerios), and old memories (quisp), and crazy ass neurosis (clearly cuckoo for coco puffs). Don’t even ask how many boxes I have of half empty commitment (hey kashi, why don’t YOU go lean?!).

You’d think with all those boxes something might just pour out. But I’ve not an alpha-bit of confidence in my ability to write these days. And just for kix I’d love it if, just once, I could skip over this part; the one where I’m staring at an empty bowl in a morning fog without any idea where the day will take me.

Maybe I need to break a few eggs, travel the world and eat some Weetabix, leggo of my ego. Not sure. But if you care at all, send me a little snap, crackle and pop, would you? I’m feeling entirely stale.

The Pulse

The pulse is how we know we are here,
The place where our hearts belong
And blood flows
And beats skip and pound.

It’s where we no longer have to hide,
Racing toward the exit
Flushed with relief or red with demand
That what is real is finally being seen.

It’s where we go to find out,
That no matter who you are
Inside, when your wrist is held,
You’ll be known by the strength of your heart.

And when the pulse is taken
We may feel the shattering;
The thready truth of us,
The fragile, narrow, way we carry life —

One beat to the next to the next to the next
All connected at the pulse
And carried back to the heart
Of the broken world.

Common

There are peonies in the garden
But mostly I’m drawn to the clover and buttercups
Scattered across the field;
The way they appear from a distance to be more than they are,
The way we get up close and give them names;
Common, everyday ones
That you’d step right over
And chew
If you were a cow.

But these purple pom poms cheering in the green,
And these clever little yellow scoops
Caught my common heart, uncommonly;
In an unguarded moment
Before I remembered what was
Across the road and past the fence
Waiting to be named
Something new.

The Fall

I didn’t really think I was lonely until he came back into my life – glancing off it for few days – and leaving again. I’ve built a narrative around my life of an independent, strong woman who loves living alone. Beyond that, and more central than that, I’ve developed an empirical belief that solitude is essential for waking and being — for creativity, and meaning — and that the most complicated and satisfying relationship I will ever have, might just be with myself.

Some of my friends are skeptical of this. My words “well, actually I’m very happy and love living alone” are received as proof of denial. I can see their eyes grow soft with sympathy, or veiled with doubt. Others think it’s selfish, eccentric, and just plain odd that I am okay not dating, not going out, not trying to meet someone. They can’t fathom that one can deeply engage in the human experience without engaging in coupledom. Without the institution of marriage. Two by two seems to be the only path toward completion. It’s hard for others to see that there are already two – me, and the entire world around me. Me, and birdsong.

Obviously being alone can be hard. I’m not glamorizing it. Like all relationships, the one we have with ourselves is fraught with old patterns and nasty little dust ups and long periods of time when we don’t even speak to one another. And worse, there’s no one else to blame for the messy parts. Still, not being in a relationship with another has been fine with me, and in truth, it’s the way I have finally come to love who I am.

But then, what do I know? When he unexpectedly re-entered this vast and autonomous world, something shifted slightly on its axis — and moved subtly in his direction. Something that was centered, tilted toward something that was not. And then he was gone, and that was okay. Except that I am now leaning away from myself — reaching toward the universe out into space, and hearing nothing. Not even a ping from a distant planet.

After he left I was left with an ache inside. And I recognize this feeling instantly. It’s loneliness. Which of course brings into question all of my strong beliefs about being the wandering poet that wakes to birdsong and notebook and pen. Maybe I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be seen by another; but I feel open and soft and sad, suddenly. It’s like he grazed the outer rim and left a small wound, and light is pouring in from somewhere I barely remember; somewhere I’m not even sure I believe in. I’m so surprised by this yearning.

So here I am. I’m leaning in, but haven’t fallen. And on this wobbling axis, I’m left with all these spinning thoughts. Maybe that’s the only way I’ll learn to balance solitude with relationship; by leaning toward, while still staying within my own orbit. Maybe I need to adjust my position to allow for a wider view of the world. Maybe it’s okay to be lonely, and maybe I’m strong enough now to risk feeling that, to risk falling – after all, I know I’m strong enough to catch myself if I do.

But I wonder something else, too. Is it possible that without another heavenly body, you don’t know how centered you really are? Maybe it takes a shooting star to remember what it’s like to let go; to remember the blinding, free-fall of love. To remember that you can’t know the entirety of the world without letting it in, without dropping into it, without leaving all you know to be true behind, to allow the great unknown to arrive.

Just when you think you are a world unto yourself, you are reminded you are not. None of us can be complete, without risking the terrifying, and the glorious, fall.