Tongue perched betwixt teeth,
& teetering on the precipice
of expression
the borderline
of realities, yet unexplored,
ripe for enunciation.
What fledgling truths
might flutter out
the cavern of my open mouth?
They are conjured
from the depths
of my belly,
fumbling toward sunlight,
steered only by the innocence
of authenticity.
And so fool becomes magician
in the transition of words, unfurled.
Spells cast.
Worlds collide.
And this, holy communion.
Holy fool, sputtering out
the language of the angels,
in gurgled birdsong.
The coo of babes,
tongue-tied and pure.
Speak now,
sweet,
or forever
hold your peace.
=====
Ahhh!! My first NaPoWriMo post in a few years! Shakin’ the cobwebs out, whew.
I am so grateful Mara steered me towards this lovely blog, from Elizabeh Weaver-Kreider. She is participating in NaPoWriMo and offering prompts.
I’m reminded, when writing this, just how MUCH abstraction my brain wants to bite off and chew. I think I will indulge it a bit, but perhaps try to write simple, concrete poems this year, too. Sometimes the abstract ones feel like a secret language with myself.
It’s been so long since I’ve written anything for this blog. “How do I orchestrate a re-entry?” wonders the mind.
When you’ve lost momentum in something, sometimes the paralysis of perfectionism is gripping. Sometimes, all that’s needed, is to start. We all need different medicine. My medicine is that of action. I spend lots of time thinking things over, pondering my stance, from everything angle. I don’t think anyone’s needed to tell me to slow down and smell the roses.
And so. I am writing.
The last two years have been blissful connection to myself in the mountains. I’ve lived with my partner’s wonderful partners and cat and dog peppered menagerie. I’ve lived with my partner tucked away in a little cabin up a winding mountain road. I’ve worked at a Renaissance Faire in Arizona with my dear friend & herbalism mentor. I’ve experienced genuine community, open, caring, beautiful people. I’ve found that I can be included in that. In love with no agenda. And I’ve found myself back here, now, in Minneapolis, where this blog originated. Where the search for it all began.
I’ve been called home, my soul’s response to the energetic beacon of my family’s intention to sell our childhood home. My dad is craving sand between his toes, and sunshine on his skin in a way that Minnesota simply cannot offer.
And so. I’m back here, gathering resources, saving money, learning new skills.
This fall I’m embarking on a yoga teacher training, reiki certification, and aerial arts classes. I’m thinking about “THE FUTURE”, which includes having a celebration (wedding) for my partner and I, having kids, starting my own business in health and wellness. I’m widening the net of connections here in the twin cities, ready to find my local tribe.
I’ve learned so much in the past couple years about letting go, enjoying life, trusting the process, in releasing the need to control it all. In thinking there’s a “right” way to manifest, to meditate, to be spiritual. I love connecting with others who trust me, and I them, to trust that their process is meant to be their own. We can share what ours are, we can talk curiously about our intentions and focus, without attachment. Without needing the reassurance that our reality is only valid when regurgitated by others.
I’m learning how to learn in community with my own family. How to communicate lovingly and clearly. How to respect boundaries. How to support one another. How to change ideas and habits that may be associated with the house we’re all living in. How to raise one another up. How to value the difference in our experiences and to understand that they’re all equally valid.
I miss the mountains sometimes. And yet. I am meant to be here. And I’m happy to be here. I love wondering at what else is in store for me.
Where are you? What are you feeling called to? What ideas are rolling around your heart and mind and soul?
Let’s collaborate and co-create.
My vision for this blog is expanded far beyond its current limitations. I see it expanding, being updated regularly, and me sharing more videos and musings. I see something beyond that, but the shape is still too hazy to be defined.
The negative space swelled, filling the room with pregnant pause.
No. Not pregnant, she thought. There was no anticipation of energetic limbs thrashing, dancing, no movement concealed beneath thinly veiled skin. She felt barren. Wholly infertile. Could one swallow the seeds that sprouted black holes? That birthed an absence?
Her cold limbs creaked like old farm house floors, drafts breezing through autumn sweaters and skirts.
Only this morning the season had called to her, had coaxed her like a lover to linger beneath blankets and sheets. Coffee and waffles and driving down country roads in the fog and rain with her partner. Stitched together in a patchwork quintessence of harvest time, the heady smell of spices thick in the air.
Her partner. He bustled around the kitchen, humming here and there to the music playing upstairs. He was making dinner, a hearty Southern meal that’d stick to the ribs. Comfort food at its finest.
What was there to feel empty about? Was there really negative space? The ever-present critic, surveying the room, raises eyebrows. Demands a precision of speech. After all. The use of the word “bustling”. Not only is the writer not alone, but she’s joined in the room with a partner, and one who is humming. (And currently dancing to some glorious hip hop music.) Where is there room for emptiness?
Oh, existentially. It almost doesn’t matter how full or warm the room is. Sometimes it all feels inaccessible.
The unanswered question. The quest for purpose nudged her on, then violently, pushed, pulled, tossed her through turbulent waves. “Whatever small happiness you have, offer it up”, whispered the gods and goddesses of existential crisis.
Yes. It was absurd. Self indulgent. And immediately relieving, the ability to stop playing the defense to the depression that skimmed the surface, dug fingernails into her skin, threatening to break it. She exhaled and surrendered to the threatened weight of it, all resistance leaving her body. And suddenly, the allure of its grasp on her evaporated. Suddenly it clung to her no longer, a thing that had no staying power. The jealous spirits writhed and fussed and slunk off into the fog.
And so the flip of a switch, a perspective shift. The kitchen, once barren, now impregnated.
The Root of the Root 