I was driving home and began wondering appreciatively over my new job and how relaxed I am these days. And yet, with this relaxation, I now feel just how full my life is and that maybe I don’t want it this full. How much of it is busy-ness not full-ness? Where is my belonging as a writer, facilitator, change agent, and human inhabiting this particular body? This question continues to haunt me like a plague.

Many do not know me so many do not know or even care that I write with an urgency I can’t refrain. I like to connect people and ideas like bees to flowers. Hopefully I perform as sweetly.
I embrace the female Earth goddess and am working on holding and empowering my female goddess friends. I also love, love, love literary witches (new found term I love).

I’ve been a changer of emotional states enacting the feminist-political through visual art.
I hoped to make viewers uncomfortable as I deformed the female body with fires and caves, blood, plastic, and dresses.

Other things I can do:
I can write – though this is probably subjective.
I suppose it’s more humble to say that I like to write.
I like to facilitate. I’ll leave it to others to value.
I can refurbish a chair. Or I can begin the process,
it’s yet to be determined if I can actually finish it.
I can make a quilt. Skirts are complicated, but I can dress old one’s up.
I can mold clay, but it may not be practical.
I can ride a bike and love to ride fast and surely wreck in my drunkenly joyous state.

 

There is no space or time for that now. My pen moves faster as urban life flays my ability for space. As politics, white-ness, and racism pervade the sea and rain. There is no time. I require a tool that moves as swiftly and poetically as the pen. That, and dormancy. My body and mind lay dormant for five years. Transitioning, my body and mind expanded until I was drowning. There was no air. Only words I was writing mainly because of grad school. One day the words pushed their way to my mouth and shoved it open so they could spill onto the dirt. With a loss of control I haven’t felt in years I grabbed ahold of the horse with no reigns or saddle to complete a transformation from silence to language. We ride and ride, lost on a path that isn’t lost at all. Instead, skipping like butterflies to sweet nectar.

Each choice I make creates
scaffolding of ideas that become
words, emotions and actions.
The tapestry of our lives becomes
what we care about internally.
“The subject of revolution is ourselves, our lives.” (Audre Lorde, A Burst of Light and Other Essays)

prioritiesWe must look at what needs to be creatively and beautifully destroyed so something new can be born. I recently read an excerpt by Albert Camus. He talked about creating dangerously and creatively destroying. This is the first step in change. Like a caterpillar to a butterfly. This is personal change, political change, organizational change, systemic change. It all starts with what you can creatively destroy. To do this, we must incinerate somethings with a sacred ritual. We may pour water and remold the clay into something wholly new with only hints shining through like stars to remind us where we came from and where we’re going. Elders watching over us.

I’m reminded of my mothers’ mother. She was a quilter, jewelry maker, card player, and Scotch lover of a woman who carried flowing red hair in a bun atop her head till the day she departed. She didn’t recognize most of us by that point. A pair of small wooden elephant earrings were passed down to me. I wear them when I feel like embodying her elderness and feel her watching. We create from the lives of others. Dead or alive – doesn’t matter. Violence and death tend to create more than its counterpart.

Things I can’t do:
I can’t make a fire which makes me feel like a sub-standard human.
I am repelled by social media and so wish I didn’t know how it worked.
I apparently can’t grow broccoli.
I can’t ride a plane without wanting to pass out.

The current system can feel against me, railing me with it’s incessant drugging. And then I read. I listen. To women. Beautifully strong, resilient, intelligent and creative women who I adore whether or not I’ve even met them. Some I only know by their books, others their podcasts. Some I hold close to me like crystals of power.

just when things finally
seemed to be over
they started up again
it wasn’t like i had expected
a sense of being
poised upon the brink
these same feelings would
resurface
like a scene seen vaguely
through clouded glass it wasn’t
clear if what was going
on was building or
dissolving.
several things about this just
seemed wrong
confusion…
a cosmic level to which everything
reverts
urgency…
it reminded me of a
time when i was a child and
had gotten frightening lost
only to be strangely
disappointed to be found
longing…
i couldn’t think i couldn’t
react.

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