Let’s see how long I can keep this going
An undying love wounded. Wavering. Awake from a deep sleep.
This path is different now
There are less leaves
There is more death
it is constantly cold and grey
I was reminded to take supplements
when i left the rains
when i returned to sunshine
i fail to follow up on
What’s good… what feeds…what uplifts
What nourishes? Who do you love?
They keep saying to be alone so I stop telling them I’m not.
And yet, we’re never alone
I present my blood, the warm heart still beating love
The life inside, love: is not acknowledged. It is crushed, its mouth covered to keep it from speaking or moaning in pleasure. Trauma haunts us. We are traumatized children. Waiting for our mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers to come home and remember the fire man, the drummer, the one who throws cedar into the fire, the road man. The one who says, welcome home, the one who says, you’re always welcome. Home.
We tried to write into this space. Our failure is this:
Once a dream appeared. I am told why home is so far away. We are not of this world. We are of different worlds–swirling. We have forgotten so much. Our heads, hearts, tongues severed. We are distracted. Keep on waking up. It’s 4:20 AM. I wake in anticipation. Half dreading because sometimes your words are razor blades. At first I cannot feel the mark of cold steel, but then when I glance in the mirror, I see my eyes bleeding.
Sometimes it’s difficult to understand depression. Its rolling wave. The way it sets into marrow. It’s not something you can carve out. It cannot be coaxed. Or can it? I wonder about human compassion. When one says “depression” or when they spell out the word to another, how does that land? When it lands in a lover’s hand will they cradle it, squeeze it tight, hold it gently. I wonder about the strange way we respond to something or someone when we have little to no way of relating–we do not understand. Some step forward to carve out their own pain. They hold it up and out and say “look.” They relate without relating. Some move back and cower. It’s too much to hold. Hold me.
And yet, when we can be kind hearted, open chested, seeing without judgment–infant eyes–then there is movement. The words–blood–flow. There is movement. Water mixes with blood, collects in pockets and soaks into bone. The dark lifts if only for a moment we recognize the light and call her dawn. The brown female body emerges from her pose. A hunched over mass that is cancer. Cancer is water. A nurturer that forgets to nurture herself. Where is the self in this writing. Where does the dream end and begin.
Gram’s 90th birthday was a month ago. She’s always here even though I cannot see her, I feel her here in these words.
Her love released. Her love released. Her. Released.
When we are hunted for so long. We were misunderstood. They could not understand us so they killed us off. We tried to protect you. We tried to keep you safe and remind you that you’re always home as long as you’re alive. The hunted are resilient. Resilience is home.
This path is different now. It looks out and looks in, daily. It binds to the sole. It embraces and heals with each step forward and back. This path beckons and waits. It is the reminder that you are never alone as long as you keep speaking to birds, plants, trees and run along with beauty just ahead, behind and next to you.