keep the channels open

a breath between the last moment and the next and to my delight, words woke with me, as if reminding me not to forget

thirty-one days of practice; of making space, stirring up, struggling through and in it finding dedication to allowing myself speak the words that come and search for them if they don’t

everything we write doesn’t have to be perfect or make any sense or even be “good”—

just as on my mat, i move to move, to feel alive, to work something through, so it is on the page

and it doesn’t matter how it looks to another; what matters is the sensation i tune into, the memories i reach for, how a body in motion invites herself to be born again

the two are weaved together in an intimate love affair; married far more closely than i originally understood

and through sometimes-wavering commitment to each other, we learn to keep the channels open



there was a moment where my thoughts dissolved into the place where the sky and the treetops met; seeking no answers but a moment to observe the melding of the two

and in those few minutes, i wasn’t digging or clawing or asking for anything; i was just me, a human with a beating heart, watching in awe the movement of the earth around me

and in those few minutes, my dog was napping, beside me

and in those few minutes, everything was as it should be 

just as easily as she slipped in, she retreated and we danced like this

for awhile

(you know those moments where you feel so full of life and you don’t want to move and spoil it? but you have to? 

that’s the gift.)



(image: via Pinterest)

the quiet overwhelms me today and i hover here, drinking it all in; after a week of great turbulence, the feeling of landing on my feet, everything intact, yet altered, somehow, has formed a small pocket of what i can only describe as contentment.

i am two of me; the body-me and the spirit-me and i can see myself from all angles and from neither place do i observe with judgement or a cruel eye and this is a nice change of pace.

(i put the words down; i put the words down and walked away, vowing to come back later and now it is the next morning and they are gone and so i will abandon this structure, the frame almost built and perhaps tomorrow the words will come back and i can continue.)


the ties that bind us



(image: via Pinterest)

the pull to go and the pull to stay, both yield the unknown and yet the desire to shed this life as a snake does her skin keeps me distracted and itchy;

change wants to come from the inside out and i want to wake up, a new me, these days of tragedy and confusion behind me, transformed through the living into wisdom that will lead the way forward—and yet, here i pause;

i stop at the urge and i can’t see my way past it and in the fog, frustration builds—how do we move from where we are? what does it take to make the first step? when everything wants to change, where do we start? where does the push to continue come from and when it feels lost, how do we find it?

it’s the same with writing—

my words lead me so far—i open the door and step in, and some days, i can feel the dark corners begin to illuminate—ah, i think—i can fill this room with words that will feel like the warmest of spaces, and here is where i can form a couch, and here is where the bookshelf will go, and secretly, beneath it all, i’m hoping that one day instead of a room, my words will build a house or a neighbourhood, or even a small town—

and here is where i want to pause again;

almost afraid (most definitely afraid) to continue navigating through the thread of this thought because instead of an ending that is neat and tidy, what if i catch another one and start to unravel something else? what if i take a shortcut to the right and the path is covered over and i have to hack at it to make a sentence and what if i’ve already lost you? this could become the never-ending story, as one thought nudges another and soon enough i’m up to my neck in words that consume me and already i spend so much time alone that i forget what it feels like to be comfortable with people—

and then the wall falls, my brain, overheated, shuts down; my heart flutters, annoyed and grateful all at once—the ties the bind us, here, to this place we are in.

she starts to push, increasing the reach of her thump:

come back, she whispers—

come back, for today, you have gone far enough and you must get out of bed and you must walk through the trees in the forest with your dog, because it is there that you can let the dirt below your feet start to loosen the layer of skin that has become unbearable to wear; you must wade into the lake, up to your thunderous thighs, for it is the water that will soften the itch of the skin that is not-quite ready to go, for we are still heart-deep in the foundation of this house that eventually will be built, one room, one word, at a time;

then, and only then, will the unknown reveal herself to you,

through this prayer. 








here we are


(image: Barbara Baldi/Flickr via Pinterest)

my blood feels quieter today, as i sit here,

the sun warm in the sky and cool in the shade;

the weather has shifted and there is movement in the air

and i can feel myself coming back.


yesterday,  a mess of tears and snot and my entire body on fire

and the thought that it would never end,


pain, fear, disappointment, failure, sadness, missing, shame


like a reel, over and over in my mind;

the struggle to forgive and forget—

and the struggle to stay present.


sleep is magic and in her room i revive;

i am tender and feel, see more,

i wish i could say how much

but there is no scale to measure the depth of being


and so, here we are




the secret to making love last


(image: via Pinterest)

i want you to be the knock at my door;

and when you walk in, hold me in your arms so i can crumble;

you will tell me that everything is going to be okay (eventually) even if right now it doesn’t feel okay, and you will wipe the tears from my red, ravaged eyes and hold me closer still

you will not comment on how i smell or the state of my hair; in your arms, i will soften,

until the weight of me settles into the trust of your comfort.

you will tell me to get on the couch, and even though it’s a thousand degrees, you will pull the comforter you bought for me a long time ago from the chest that traveled over oceans to get here and i will wrap myself up and

feel held by something bigger.

you will fuss around the tiny kitchen of this tiny apartment that you will never see, remarking on how cute it is, as you make me something that only you could; it will be the right thing for this moment and i will want to say thank you a hundred different ways, 

but the words will be stuck in my throat and instead, more tears will fall, and i will know by your presence that i am not alone or too weird or a freak or a failure;

and even though i will have a hard time accepting the truth is not the one i tell myself, i will believe you, because you gave birth to me and knew me like no other. 

when i wake up from a nap that resets my pulse, you will tell me who you were and what you were afraid of and the secret to making love last and

you will tell me what it’s like to grow a life inside your body, 

and you will let allthethings fall from your lips and i will collect them, one by one, 

like little nuggets of gold, your wisdom,

and i will stash them safely away, into the corners of my heart

for a day darker than this one.