the spin

perched on the edge of something and anticipation holds court

breath caught as the crickets tell tall tales and the sun washes lazily over the fields

i am obsessed with how nature feels and there is a gully of words i have wedged myself into

do you notice when you are stuck in quicksand and everything you write recycles as nothing newer than the last incarnation and try as you might to pull yourself free, the deeper into the cycle you go?

maybe immersing my body in a bed of thick grasses or finding water to wash myself clear of the residue of this thing that doesn’t quite want to shift will help

or maybe when we find ourselves here, we must let the words spin over and over again until they tire themselves out and some new ones are born

i am at a loss

there is a connection between the words spilled here and the physical form that holds my heart

and if i could strip both away for the day, i might

for time spent here consistently continues to unwind something inside that has been safely contained for a lifetime so far

until everything is uncomfortable and vulnerable and there is nothing left to lose

wild and free

we awoke before the sun and as we walked through the field, a chorus of life shifting around us filled the air

we paused, a hush fell

we started moving again and the little hoppers that were hiding in the tall grasses leapt into the air, rushing to get out of the way

we walked like this for awhile

every now and then a car quickens by but otherwise it’s so quiet that we can hear everything, especially the rush of our own thoughts and the hum of the earth beneath us

clarity amongst the trees; bathing in the early morning sun; life is so simple without the charge of the concrete jungle around me and i wonder if my life in the city is really just barely existing

and not living, fully, wholly, completely

(what does that mean anyway? i think it means that in the city, we have everything at our finger tips yet it is so loud and there is such a rush to do do do that i can easily forget to be. i think it means that no matter how clean i try to live my life, the air is sticky and a film settles on my skin when we walk and we humans are so unkind to each other, concerned with only ourselves and with no other. i think it means that out here, ideas have the space to grow and we can be on two different floors in an old house and there is so much room that neither of us is sure what to do with it. i think it means that i am the daughter of the trees, the moon and the stars and out here i am closest to where i come from…and i think it means that i am home again, in the heart of everything that lives and breathes.)

my city self and all her guards have been put to the side;

being on this land, where the lure of the sun coaxes us out of bed before she herself rises requires a different kind of survival

the kind that only my wild self knows how to be.

nature medicine

it is so late in the day that the stars are out and we spent the day venturing into nature so the sky is vast and large

wrapped in her arms for the next few days, i can feel a softening in my body

like coming home and being held

and it’s her holding us—nature—in her warm embrace

he sniffs the air i can i see the smile spread on his face and my heart thumps an extra beat when i see the spring in his step

this is where to return when everything feels empty; when the way is cloudy and doubt creeps in

this is where to come when the face in the mirror stares back at you with daggers in her eyes

and this is the place to be when it’s time to lay down and shed another skin

with her clean air in my lungs, words feel endless and i can see the heart wood of each tree

and the flicker of hope appears

the next life has arrived

oh, the mornings

 

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(image via Pinterest)

every morning i sit here and maybe it’s tea or maybe it’s coffee beside me and always there is a dog and maybe one cat—i sit here with my fingers hovering above the keyboard and i pray that the moment they touch down that words will come spilling out into the open and they will be brilliant and life changing and that they will be everything. so, just a little bit of pressure to create something worth thinking about and the truth is that sometimes these morning writes clears the dust off of my creative self; it’s like picking my brain up, shaking her around and putting her back down, ready to start fresh. but some days, i like the brain fog and the slowness of waking up and of letting things that i feel rest with me so that the process of opening is slow and steady and it is like a flower blooming in slo-mo and eventually, is open, ready for the world to see her in all of her self. take a deep breath and pause a moment and look out the window at the trees and listen to the murmuring of saturday morning. sigh. my words aren’t ready; there are plenty of them but right now they are floating around and i am cautious of plucking them from the sky too early and i’m cautious of sewing sentences together until it’s time. 

sigh.

so tell me about you—i’m tired of hearing myself think and i’m tired of my own words and all the me me me that i am in the depths of. what makes your heart race? do you have a favorite sound? what does the ocean mean to you? is there anything about you that you hide from the world and if so, what is it? if you close your eyes and move your body, does the unknowing of how you look drive you mad? do you have a pile of books on your beside table and do you like coffee or tea and what is your favorite meal and how long do you chew for? if you were to live in the woods for a year, what would you take? and on island? what do you really think of tattoos and if you don’t have one do you secretly dream of having one and if you have one or two or three or more, do you secretly wonder what you would look like without them? do you believe in god? spirit? a force bigger than you? do you believe in gurus? do you believe in the wisdom your own heart carries? what is your favorite word and do you sometimes repeat words over and over again until they make no sense and do you take a strange pleasure in disorganizing thought? oh and how slow do you like your mornings? 

the holding

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(image: myfolklover on Etsy via Pinterest)

the secret lies where we least expect it to, in the curve of our hips and the sigh of our muscles

each movement a key into a door where a thousand memories hide and if we move and breathe in just the right away, we might start to feel a shift

a belief we’ve held onto for far too long springs free and because we grow used to holidng holding holding, we grip tighter for the fear of setting it free to the unknown

(for who are we if we aren’t that?)

this week has been a space of work for my body and i; sweat, curious shapes and poetic words led to the discovery of a goldmine of pain i thought i had long ago said goodbye to and as each sensation memory surfaced, i realized how carefully i had buried my stuff, deep in my tissues attached to my bones

i know the way is through getting quiet so everything can get loud and in this body and heart, a self-contained storm rages on

and soon it will be time to coax my fingers free of that which weighs me down

so that i can rest before the next storm

fall again

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(image: Malinconia Leggera via Pinterest)

the wind in the trees softens the roar of the city and she lulls me into exploring each thought, my words like a puzzle i have shaken out onto the table and am now trying to piece together

she settles me, the wind, but she also ruffles my feathers as she speaks of the falling of the leaves and the shift in the season;

soon, before we know it, the trees will be naked and her whisper will bite at my cheeks so sharply tears will fall 

summer feels like she hovered but didn’t quite land and i wonder if i missed her by the blink of an eye and the tan lines on my feet tell a different story

lately i want to end every piece with and so we begin again, almost-but-not-quite neatly tying things up and in this case, i feel it too

 

 

the secrets in our bones

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(image: ellemoss on Etsy via Pinterest)

the slide into grace comes the moment true words stumble from lips into air,

the moment a guard is dropped and a raw, (usually) bloody wound is revealed as if to say: i am nothing and everything, too

and this is all of me and none of me, too

we do this—sometimes—but not often enough to change the direction of our spinning earth and not enough to know how our bones will shake with gratitude

and our muscles will sing with the freedom of dropping the guard

the secrets we hold are the ones we create, to save us, to hold us;

there are those ones we build for protection, out of shame or necessity—and there are the secrets that trace back to the beginning, with the birth, life and death of our ancestors, the ones that came before us, their learning diluted and morphed over the years by the different blood lines that run together

and the lessons and choices they charged towards or shrunk away from landed like sediment in their bones

so we are who we are and we are who they are—and through our own sifting and adapting and releasing, we alter the make up of our cells and what we share with the hearts that follow our footsteps

this is not light work; most days it is not easy and the cries may be loud and sorrowful and some days, the reorganizing of our make up will bring us to our knees 

(and maybe, we might have moment where all we can do is laugh too-loudly until tears find their way down our cheeks)

we will want to give up and run, flee, as far away as we can or swallow the truth as we tread in place, head barely above water

and this we call life

(the other secret is this: we always have a choice.

we can invite grace in through any door or window that will open or we can let the weight of it all drown us)

what do you choose?