.
sometimes we have to take a step back
before we move forward
remember all the things we’ve forgotten
forget all the answers
revisit
the questions
.
there is always
beauty in life
life in growth
growth in pain
.
the cartography of tomorrow
is drawn from the pen
of present
.
tenacity is the bloom
of survival
.
open
.
.
.
.
it feels like that’s what this year has been, this year of racing the unknown, scrambling up a mountain of change, lying down in a bed of blind faith.
i keep all the knots loose, for easy escape, and, of course, to make room for new growth.
but nothing stays tidy for long, i know that now.
the sun and the wind and the moon and the stars all conspire to change the shape of existence, sculpting time into their own artistic vision.
so what if i can’t see what they’re creating?
so what if my eyes sting with the strain of trying?
so what if the swamp dries up and the trees bend with thirst and the field of corn across the street turns brown before it reaches four feet tall?
we’re all running, away or toward. we’re all breathing in this air that touches everything and everyone.
we are all this vine turning back upon itself when there is nothing else to hold onto.
breathing in light and exhaling silence.
the flowers that plant themselves become my favorites.
grasping opportunity or fighting for survival, it’s all perspective.
it’s all lost in the cold of winter.
there are always new seeds being planted.
there are so many questions without answers hanging high in a colorless sky.
i leave them for the night that promises results.
i leave them for the bird that soars through hunger.
i leave them for the child that cries to untangle.
tomorrow is always weaving a new story.
today is a word lit by inhale.
.
.
.
this year.
i can’t keep up with anything.
then again, most days i’m glad i’m not in the race.
it’s become the year of silence. of thinking. cringing. thinking some more.
but no matter how many ways i try to separate good and evil, noble and sinister, right and wrong, i just keep coming back to that same thought.
we all have a heart.
perhaps some of us have ours in the wrong place, but who’s to say?
not me.
i’m just going to sit here and watch the flowers grow.
listen.
learn.
hold tight to all the questions
and keep my own heart on my sleeve,
right where it’s always been.
.
.
.
i wanted to tell you a story
but all these words
cracked open and bled off the page
all viscous and slippery
and dark with age
i wanted to hold them in the cup
of my oddly-marked palm,
or i wanted to hold you and stand
before that blank cracked distorted mirror
and i’ve forgotten
i wanted to give you something
called everything
but that box always comes up empty
no matter how many times i trap-wrap
and rosette with sincerity
i wanted to line your heart
with soft mirage memories of joy
but there was wool, only wool
all sharp and dry and scratchy
rubbing permanence raw
again
and again
and the ceiling
the reflection
of holy
.
.
.
The light is changing and the days run a few minutes longer and I tell myself this will be the year I get over February. (Though I say that every year and it has yet to actually happen.)
Last night I finished the afghan I started 6 or 8 years ago (so along ago that I can’t remember which) and I thought that perhaps this will be the year of finishing. Or maybe rather than thought, I hoped.
Listening and finishing. The map of 2016.
Of course, like all maps, there is a certain margin for error and I have factored in lots of room to get lost. And I know there will be times when I choose not to use that map at all, because I don’t always like to know where I’m going, I’d rather drift and explore.
I read this article and suddenly felt right at home in my mind. Vindicated in some small way. Okay, it may have been a big way. Whatever.
It was an answer. An answer to why I always, always, always prefer the questions. Which is a funny concept all on its own.
The other day I wondered why we’re all so obsessed with happiness. I wondered if that’s even true. I wondered if I want to be happy, and decided yes, but not all the time. I’d prefer to be okay with being sad or angry or bored or irritated or content or confused, too. I’d prefer to experience all of it.
I walked out to get the mail and the sun was shining and the sky was clear and not-so-winter blue and for a second, I felt pure joy. At simply being alive and outside with the sun on my face. I remembered then how much I need to be out of doors. Winter always makes me forget.
Doors. An endless source for metaphors.
I miss color. Even my face is white and pale. I miss my freckles. (Okay maybe they are age spots, but I’m choosing to call them freckles.) I miss the daily drama of my garden.
Everything is shifting, all the time. And then resettling. Shifting again. There is no solid ground.
In spring I will trim away the dead wood. Toss it in a big pile and start a fire.
Which will remind me of winter.
And so it goes.
.
.
.
Lately, I think about listening. How bad we are at it, how everything keeps getting louder, how we talk over each other, and even, ourselves.
We’ve forgotten how to be alone with silence.
We have so many things to do, so many places to be, so many lives to fit into life.
I spend time with my 89-year-old friend and everything slows down. She doesn’t hear so well, and our communication becomes a pantomime of gesture and shouting. I spend time with my 8-month-old granddaughter and see the world with fresh eyes. Everything is new and exciting and wondrous. Everything slows down further, because we have to take time to relish each new moment and every fresh discovery.
In both cases, I find myself listening in new ways.
At night I read, turn the ever-present television off, and fall into stories. My house whispers its own secrets and my mind takes off in new directions.
I try to think of the last time I did nothing, and can’t remember. I’m always looking for something: entertainment or enrichment or connection or experience.
I crave silence, but when I find it, I fill the air with sound.
I want to remember something, the feel of roots or earth or security. And promises.
I build fires to conquer the cold and my need for something primal.
Even the darkest of months offers sympathy.
A heartbeat is the sound of existence. A symphony of seduction. A sonata of solace.
I find myself straining to hear.
.
Listen.
.
.
.
.
The bows get harder to tie each year, wrapping life up into neat little packages is a gift of the young. But no matter, the new year comes just the same, wrapped or not, prettied up or painted over, parceled out or held close in hidden pockets.
We like our second chances, though. New year, new month, new week, new day. The chance to begin again, be better, live more, love more, give more.
We bring our scars and broken bits to the party, and after a while, no one notices. Because what matters is that we are there, standing testament to each other’s existence. My paint is peeling and your paper is torn. My corners are crooked and your ribbon is creased. Packaging, no matter how perfect or pretty, ruined or wrinkled, is not what we offer.
The gift is always inside.
And the bits that poke through, refusing to fit neatly into boxes or hide beneath brightly colored paper, those are always the very best parts.
.
Here’s to another year of gifts and smiles, tears and scars, sunshine and puddles.
Here’s to you and to me and to us.
All of us.
Here’s to being here.
.
xoxo
.
on the quiet colors
of a cold grey sad day morning
.
the scent of winter
crisp and silent
creeping up behind me
.
.
.
.
as i swim through center
muddy toes, bony fingers, brittle bones
i will not drown and the sky keeps changing
clouds of starlings dance in pulse and parody
and i smile at the futility of standing
.
float and eddy
swirl and bend
let go let go let go
.
it’s all happening
.
.
.
.
.
Finding center in an asymmetrical world is never easy.
Balance is always elusive, and mostly, temporary.
.
But you can find your axis, even as you spin.
And that’s the piece you hold onto.
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