This is my shadow.
A life a few feet behind me.
That shirt. God, I thought I tossed it.
This smell..brings me back to here.
When it was then.
I sat at this very table processing, organizing, dreaming, concocting.
He sat catching a show on the tube.
I would go to sleep full of dreams and plans and, well, darkness.
How can you build on unsteady ground?
This work is hard and real and very necessary.
These pants. I hope they fit.
Do I still want the books, the socks, the dusty makeup?
Maybe not the makeup.
The muffled city outside taps on my window.
Tomorrow, lovely one. Tomorrow.
My little treetop of goodness.
How it fills my soul.
Silence. No dog. No schedule. No errands.
Not yet. Just. Me.
Hard work happens on an exhaustive plane home,
Unpacking and sifting and embracing my fragile heart.
Eyes like thick drops of oil.
Body like a sleepy kitten. Make that an older cat.
Mind swimming uphill with zest, or maybe desperation.
Tomorrow, lovely one. Tomorrow.
Dear Lil’ One,
Oh mighty one
Survival is an interesting thing.
Living from a fight or flight perspective is daunting and exhausting.
I know you know this.
And yet, here we are yet again, sitting opposite each other.
It’s the waiting game.
Who’ll quit first.
I want you to know
I come with peace in my heart
A white flag in my hand
Hoping we can come to some agreement.
Hoping you’ll be open to some space
A lil’ room for a shift in perspective
See what kind of information that tells us.
The truth is,
What we’ve been doing hasn’t been working.
I know you feel this.
We are spinning plates.
How about a new journey
A new path
No map, besides our instincts and love
Not fear, not competition, not stupid pride
Nothin’ but us.
There is space for you.
There is love for you.
There is possibility beyond this.
It’s the closest thing I’ve felt to death.
5 days of labor and pushing and pain and sweat and utter exhaustion.
Hours of almost readiness, a champ in the ring, waiting for her trophy.
And he arrives, at a perfect Godly time with absolute intention.
He comes uncracked, unwrinkled; life hasn’t stamped her good ol’ reality check on his skin. Not yet.
Why do we cry? How does it crack our hearts wide open?
We’ve all traveled this channel too. We have got to be as perfect, as divine, as uncracked?
Somewhere underneath. Right?
Clouds hiding the sun, type of shit. Right?
A son. A nephew. A gift.
Every day has its dawn,
Its soft and silent eve,
Its noontide hours of bliss and bale; —
Why should we grieve?
Why do we heap huge mounds of years
Before us and behind,
And scorn the little days that pass
Like angels on the wind?
Each, turning round a small, sweet face
As beautiful as near,
Because it is so small a face
We will not see it clear.
We will not clasp it as it flies,
And kiss its lips and brow:
We will not bathe our wearied souls
In its delicious Now.
And so it turns from us, and goes
Away in sad disdain;
Though we could give our lives for it,
It never comes again.
Yet, every day has its dawn,
It’s noontide and its eve:
Live while we live, giving God thanks—
He will not let us grieve.
Violeta Parra was Chilean
Thanks to life (Thankful for life) (Thanks to Life)
which has given me so much
He gave me two eyes,
And in the sky,
her starry background
and the crowds,
the man I love.
Continue reading “gracias a la vida”