That wilderness that I didn’t know was me, yet. Six-year-old terror, standing outside myself in those woods, staring at the barren ground. Alien ground. I stared at it and couldn’t place it. It could have been in Africa, that earth, flattened by elephants, dried by interminable sun. But, it was in England. And I was six. And we were on the run: our mad mother and me and my sisters, four and two.
On the run. I have always craved stillness. Especially stillness of mind. I have always tried to understand, put in place, organize, make sense of. I have always needed to set it all down on paper. Black sacred words, placed on paper, make me real.
I am real; I keep reminding myself that. I am here. I am. This is a fulltime job, reminding myself of myself. I wake too early and cannot find myself, my mind in a mad swirl, a rush, a panic. And so I begin, once again, every morning before the sun rises, to find myself.
I am. I exist.
I am stillness. I hold myself still in the woods, the early evening light in shadowy stripes. I am those illusive silky stripes. I am the clear, crisp yearning of the tiniest of bird call. The raptor that dives. The fallen trees uprooted by storms. Sometimes I think… no, I am beyond thinking…
I am.
I am tremble. I am rush of rage. I am invisible-vulnerable. I am so full of ache. I am broken, awakened heart. Yes! That is when I am most me, when my heart is breaking wide open.
Yesterday a distressed woman passing me on the street screamed at me: ‘…and you can fuck right off!’ And she entered me, like the finest of liquids, like whispery liquid, denser that air, but almost air. She did not threaten or invade me, I don’t know why. I heard her, I received her: mad woman, lost woman, terrified woman. And I knew she had no chance in this life, but she had words, she could tell me to fuck right off, me who seemed to exist more than her in this desperately unfair world.
I am growing less afraid. I am here, in this spinning terrifying universe, with more me, more I am. I am existing more, like the sunrise out my window, catching the dawn, silhouettes of floating birds, barren skeletons of trees, sparkling car lights crossing the bridge. A city wakes up and I am too.
"That is when I am most me, when my heart is braking wide open." I feel ache, hope, both feel painful. To be still in these places, not out of being frozen, but out of a sincere sense of sensing is what I sense in these "black sacred words." Thank you.
April 2/24
That wilderness that I didn’t know was me, yet. Six-year-old terror, standing outside myself in those woods, staring at the barren ground. Alien ground. I stared at it and couldn’t place it. It could have been in Africa, that earth, flattened by elephants, dried by interminable sun. But, it was in England. And I was six. And we were on the run: our mad mother and me and my sisters, four and two.
On the run. I have always craved stillness. Especially stillness of mind. I have always tried to understand, put in place, organize, make sense of. I have always needed to set it all down on paper. Black sacred words, placed on paper, make me real.
I am real; I keep reminding myself that. I am here. I am. This is a fulltime job, reminding myself of myself. I wake too early and cannot find myself, my mind in a mad swirl, a rush, a panic. And so I begin, once again, every morning before the sun rises, to find myself.
I am. I exist.
I am stillness. I hold myself still in the woods, the early evening light in shadowy stripes. I am those illusive silky stripes. I am the clear, crisp yearning of the tiniest of bird call. The raptor that dives. The fallen trees uprooted by storms. Sometimes I think… no, I am beyond thinking…
I am.
I am tremble. I am rush of rage. I am invisible-vulnerable. I am so full of ache. I am broken, awakened heart. Yes! That is when I am most me, when my heart is breaking wide open.
Yesterday a distressed woman passing me on the street screamed at me: ‘…and you can fuck right off!’ And she entered me, like the finest of liquids, like whispery liquid, denser that air, but almost air. She did not threaten or invade me, I don’t know why. I heard her, I received her: mad woman, lost woman, terrified woman. And I knew she had no chance in this life, but she had words, she could tell me to fuck right off, me who seemed to exist more than her in this desperately unfair world.
I am growing less afraid. I am here, in this spinning terrifying universe, with more me, more I am. I am existing more, like the sunrise out my window, catching the dawn, silhouettes of floating birds, barren skeletons of trees, sparkling car lights crossing the bridge. A city wakes up and I am too.
"That is when I am most me, when my heart is braking wide open." I feel ache, hope, both feel painful. To be still in these places, not out of being frozen, but out of a sincere sense of sensing is what I sense in these "black sacred words." Thank you.
This was such a delightful writing experience! I loved learning what my favorite tree in our local forest and my grandmother have in common:)
Thank you for ‘I am the grasses that whisper know me’ I feel that whispering in my bones.
Open
I am open,
the bluff whose cheek kisses
Salish blue.
I am knees bent back on the swing,
a moment before
vaulting into spring
in this playground where
wind is stronger than sun.
It’s ok.
You can touch my face.
I lean down so the small boy
can reach, can bless me
with Holi colors, magenta
sweeping over one cheek
then the other,
set ablaze from his small hand.
I peer into the well
deep within my chest,
lowering the bucket into this cave.
Let the stalactites drip their tears,
I will gather them close,
draw them up.
dip my fingers in this goodness.
Kiss my own fingertips.