Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.
I spend time and thread reaching out for places to land, and sometimes I do, but then I feel the wind signaling again that the respite is but transitory, and I am not even the spider but a phoenix whose wings have singed over centuries beyond this dimension as I eternally morph evanescently, reaching out for a home for me.
I am fueled by storms and coastal wind as I raise my arms to each and channel them until empowerment rises boldly from within…
But it is in the still and minute, in the soft scent of beautiful, in the trust of subtle, the barely discernible, that I feel the forgotten soothed, those buried-alive non-truths; the golden elixir single ray finding the torn petal coats in those places I am not able to ever reach on my own.
Up close and personal is the only way I know to heal my heart, to feed my soul, and that, I believe, is the path that leads home.
A detour, soulful tugging, I find myself impulsively knelt again on the white sands before the altar at an end of the earth, surf symphony rising predictably to greet me, but I casually look about for the signs He wanted me to again come ’round… between my toes ancient mountains ground to grains, quartz granules, sugar-soft, appropriate backdrop for the hieroglyph written for me: it freezes me.
So easily, I succumb to the enchantment of silence, save for those waves and occasional sea birds with personal messages calling. (It always baffles me how I can so often have this parcel of paradise to myself…) I stay a long, unhurried while just trying to feel what this enigmatic swirl of sea oat in the sand is all about… Something about curves is always so sensuous, aesthetically strokes my soul… I don’t need a translation; in fact, I prefer this sacredly-carved symbol. I make it my own and add it to my collection of clues leading me leisurely home. It is the journey after all, and I have nowhere else to go.
If I have to have walls, give me windows big and bright where shadows can dance for hours with the light, windows that open wide to invite the breezes inside. In all mental-health seasons, I so easily slip away for days, lose myself in those sunny sills and rainy panes, faraway thoughts that need not be sorted nor restrained; even my muses need a holiday. The spaces inside my dwelling fade in comparison to the glass and screens I need for my soul to not suffocate. If I have to have walls, give me windows through which to endlessly escape.
shifting sands grains unable to be grasped slipping through fingers sieve of my existence footprints vanishing in vain trying to leave an imprint, fingerprints fossilizing
as I watch sea drops dry on shells shells of mankind displayed non-selves on shelves
shifting painted shapes offer to take me away only to lead to the next drifting cumulous cloud lateral when I need to be higher homeward bound
shifting sands I open my hand spread my fingers wider I know what the answers are not to feel the silk is to feel nothing caught but sensory strokes the void in the curve of my palm no trail found to my entrance into the sea
saltwater can’t sting when the wounds are too far beneath the body’s surface
arms open I invite the above in home- sick let me know I am not
It’s been sunny and seventies, and the seasons have not so much been confused as they have been seemingly just leisurely mingling, amused, some stalling, some joyfully letting go; nothing in the South rushes though.
Like melting cubes of ice in tea, we take it sweet and slow down here. It tickles me pink to have the mix sprinkling personal messages so clear.
Today started differently, gray with a bit of nip in the air. Certain trees partaking in autumn are almost now bare, covering the patio in a bland blanket over stone, which made the flowers I did not grow even more the focal point of my windowed soul.
I smiled for how they have become so deeply rooted in my journey. Marking my heart’s pages, so many petals and leaves held so dearly, imprinting with their colors and scents my most powerful untold stories.
Fissures shift, the inner lifts, though I wish to keep it enclosed. Exposed to the elements becomes my soul. The tears rise and flow.
When the painquake subsides, there are less toxins inside. I suppose it is nature’s way of eliminating the accumulating waste, that which we bury in false deaths, that which we hide beneath the surface, a sort of protection and procrastination of that which we cannot bear in the moment to face.
Two-faced are we all. How are you? Good, thanks. Why do we ask that question in passing? Too often fake. How am I? Probably actually similar to how you are especially in the way that we guard the answer. Brief eye contact. Continue walking. If only we acknowledged anything. Hands on phones, hands of clocks. Bombs inside. Tick. Tock.
Fissures by nature are meant to be breaks. Down is mine. Again. No brakes.
Not a fall but an opening. An involuntary wound-seeping. Weeping.
My inner, risen now. What will you do with what’s come out?