You settled into my dream.
Stared me from my sleep. And told me it was time for a birth.
I asked if I could stay by your side.
A tender “no” was pushed from your lips.
I stood to leave while the others danced around me.
Your fear and my rejection walked me out of that dream.
That morning, grief was born.
It poured from my body for 7 straight days.
You ghosted my life with coffee, clowns, and diamonds -
A knowing that slipped between us.
Then a person of your making began to stain my thoughts.
He received the words I couldn’t say to you.
And we connected over the beauty and pain you left behind.
We both miss your song.
My body has footsteps. I do not.
I slide through life on deep thoughts and breaths.
I am passed along in stories, shames, and celebrations.
I have moved across phone wires.
Been drowned 40 proof at night and forgiven by breakfast.
Been resurrected in kindness. Extinguished in rage.
Remembered and forgotten.
But, I do not have footsteps.
I live a life of impaired judgement.
That’s why the wildest flowers rush to bloom in my arms.
And stories filled with truth boom inside my ears.
Your stories. His. Hers. And, my stories.
I can’t sleep with all these rules.
The air is too thin.
I want to learn to thrive in the thick of it.
And, melt magnificently in the heat of it.
Unravel and tangle into all new knots.
Find a way to slip through the cracks and expand to create
Experiment with a stance that is completely still and strong.
Then, crawl desperately towards the feet of everything I am
Kick up dirt.
And, rise again covered in messy, beautiful life.
I planted a bunch of seeds in my office this winter to try to work through a period of transition that I was experiencing. I bought them lights, watered them, talked to them often, over nurtured them...tried. Now that the sun has been high in the sky and the season is right...they are all growing wildly.
Lesson learned. No matter how much you try, you can't force anything to blossom in the wrong season. Even yourself.
You can plant the seeds. You can fill them with intention. But, until the time is right it's mostly about sowing hopes and waiting.
So, now I'll be thinking about the seeds I want to plant in my own life for the next season. What do I want to harvest when the time for growth has come to an end and it's time to store my energy up for the next natural transition?
“Do you ever feel that way?" "Lonely?" I search for the words. "Restless. As if you haven't really met yourself yet. As is you'd passed yourself once in the fog, and your heart leapt - 'Ah! There I Am! I've been missing that piece!' But it happens too fast, and then that part of you disappears into the fog again. And you spend the rest of your days looking for it." He nods, and I think he's appeasing me. I feel stupid of having said it. It's sentimental and true, and I've revealed a part of myself I shouldn't have. "Do you know what I think?" Kartik says at last. "What?" "Sometimes, I think you can glimpse it in another.” ― Libba Bray, The Sweet Far Thing