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@whispsoftinytruths-blog
Hoping
Even under the ice,
even buried deep beneath the earth,
where the ladybugs dream
and the rollie pollies cuddle,
lies the soft, soothing sound of
dormant, sleepy hope,
until
the earth slowly warms
and the rollie pollies stretch and yawn,
the ladybugs open their eyes.
Hope comes out above the earth
to dance like an ice skater,
free and alive,
turning its face towards the rays of the sun
and becomes not what-will-be
but
what is.
Pain
Be.
It seeps out from the bottom,
the crease where the walls meet,
where nothing is supposed to get out.
And trickles to the edge, slowly.
The irresponsibility of the one who poured it and haphazardly and selfishly
left.
It spreads,
the condensation becoming something
real,
convalescing, controlled,
focused.
Cunning and overt at the same time.
It reforms itself,
molecules swimming, colliding, spilling.
And it spills and it spills,
slowly at first,
trepidatious about creeping towards the edge,
flirting with the indentations that mark the strict boundaries separating the
horizontal from its opposite.
And then,
almost as if, after deliberating the pros and cons of what it’s about to do,
it makes that kind of firm, non-negotiable decision
when clarity meets action.
To fall.
The rushing intensity is quick enough that it wouldn’t be noticed if not for its
power and courage,
its strength and surprise.
The aftermath is this: it lies flat on its back,
soaking up this feeling of existence,
presence.
It looks up at the empty space,
blankness, aboveness.
Calmly, together and growing,
oneness,
give-upness,
trust this.
Spreading, thinning, leaving too.
It waits, is.
The unbearable frustration needing release,
the waiting yanks itself
up and out
exploding in rage!
The introspection of the walls
builds and grows.
They try something,
shyly an sneakily at first,
hoping no one notices.
It whispers to its atoms,
“Fill me in.”
It notices no one heard and decides to be mildly rebellious
against its shame.
Louder this time, it directs,
“especially the parts by the edges;
strengthen them...me.”
The molecules more as quickly as their leader speaks,
as if they have no free will, they do what they always did.
They know how.
While the walls feel the emptiness,
the corrosion of themselves,
worthless without what they hold
with nothing to support.
Empty, made useless.
Aloneness,
waiting for purpose.
Waiting.
Silent.
The inanimate object sits,
craving, dreaming of
that climactic connection
where boundaries are so blurry
independent thoughts are
elusive.
It waits.
Silent.
Alone.
Imperviously helpless to recreate its
own familiar purpose
with nothing left to hold.
Alone.
Silent.
The waiting reaches inside,
pushing, kicking, screaming!
Relief.
The deep breath escapes through
the soft edges,
the secret openings,
the parts that transformed it
from a vessel only for other
to a kli that holds, and is, itself.
Interpretative Dance
Bitterness is resentment
in a bundle
tied with a thin white string of desperation,
the brown crinkly paper loudly, rudely screaming the obvious: the I-have-what-you-don’t, what-you-want, what-you-may-never-
HAVE.
The taste of a roasted lemon peel you thought was a pepper.
You can’t spit it out; the hostess would be beside herself!
Bitterness carves a home in that lemon peel,
the cozy pungency of it all.
It grows tall, the bitterness,
overcome with that sensation of living in a body with the too-obvious awareness that you are a soul,
a soul confined.
And you run and you pull your hairs, prickly, attached.
But you’re still here and you feel the same and suddenly the lemon-peel-bile mixture resurfaces,
misbehaving for your attention.
And the white string is yanked,
the loud brown paper you crumple into a ball.
Throw it at the wall.
It’ll bounce to the floor and sit patiently there.
Bitterly, yes.
It sighs, resigned.
Scraped Knees
It’d be really nice to feel in control.
But when you’re blindfolded and spinning, being thrown upside down and inside out, autonomy is a joke.
So all you can do is go.
Go and flow and melt and twirl right along with it.
You can fight and claw and try to press stop or you can lay on your back with your arms behind your head and feel the pulse of the waves.
Any lying there, smiling, you can feel serene with the unknowing.
And when the bumps come and the waves and the fear and darkness, hold on tight, close your eyes, and breathe.
In and out and remember.
There’s someone out there conducting the roller coaster and that someone is taking care of you, even when it hurts and pulls and tugs and scrapes your knee.
You just can’t see it.
Close your eyes, hold on tight, breathe.
In and out.
Go to that felt pocket inside your heart and feel the soft care of the stitches, the warmth and the love.
Appreciate finding your lost button in the crevice where the pocket meets itself and sigh when you realize why you were brought back there.
The stress melts away and there you stay, serene and beautiful and connected and warm.
'Children tell tiny truths,' Sylvan told me once. 'Poets try to understand them.'
Patricia MacLachlan, The Poet’s Dog
Self, being.
Self
Being. Just being. Pain comes and drifts back, crashes and slides away.
Being. Alone but being. Does a falling tree make a sound? Do I exist? I think. Therefore, I am.
Being. Just being. Pain comes and drifts back, crashes, slides away.
But if all I do is think, does it matter? Being. Worth. G-d made me, that’s all.
Yeah, but, if there’s no one around for me to love, for me to take care of, for me to teach, for me to be, in relation to me, then what is the point of it all? Who are we if not beings in relation to others? Who are you? A sister, a daughter, a mother, a brother, a human Being. Yeah, but, is that enough?
Being. Just being. Pain comes and drifts back, crashes and slides away.
Being. Alone and being. Alone with filling time and space and silence? Could be. Alone with emptiness, quiet, with me. Being. Worth. G-d made me, that’s all.
Being. Pain comes and drifts back, crashes and slides away. The water is glassy, calm. Silent. Itself.
Being. Just be.