swimming in another current
depths, stuckness, prayers for movement
I am here. Sitting in my childhood home, fleshy booty on wood chair, foot rooted into the wood floor, tender heart, hazy sky, churning creek, TV mumbling, cactus watching.
I am Here. And I am tending to the subterranean of my soul.
A slower process unfolds. One that knifes down narrative and shirks away from the light. It’s dark and meandering. It’s quiet and un-spectacular.
It co-exists with the pulse of my life and world events, churning, swirling, and then stuck.
How much truth am I really willing to take in? What’s breaking through beyond my control?
What have I been avoiding to keep things neat and manageable?
Where have I been quietly hoping for a final arrival? When I knowwwwww that’s not how this life works
Where are the firm, steady stones I keep trying to float above?
I sit here in the season of my solar return, floating. I am moving, but with a passivity that I can no longer tolerate. This is a part of the path… Observing the flinging from zero to sixty to zero. The ways I demand things to go a certain way. The other times I want to be led. The ways I hide behind story and idealism. The ways I want to be above it all. The ways I want to stay in bed.
There’s nothing wrong here when I have a thicker response to it all. Thick, viscous, loving.
I have been needing larger containers, something to hold the depths, something/someone to see these patterns that often go unseen by most. To reckon with my largeness and situate me in the family of things. To poke and prod and remind me that I am author of this life.
More and more, this arrives into my field, in the shape of lover, guide, friend. And now that it is here, a part of me wants to rebel against it. You don’t understand. Look away. I am baby. I am teenager. I am woman. Artist. Queer. Contemplative. See-er and seeker.
I am vast, not-fully-know-able. I am a node. I have been hiding.
I am sorry. Relax. Show up. Let go. I love you. What?
Stay. Just a moment longer.
Sometimes I feel like a buoy that refuses to sink. And, I need to sink. I want the ocean floor. My soul demands to explore these edges. I am here because I want to be, and the buzz in my chest reminds me of this. We won’t settle for the surface.
Metaphor helps me stay in my body, in the feeling, in the heart. May it be an avenue for passage, rather a distraction that feeds the gap. This gap between Me and me.
I am trying to build bridges with others, with movement, with voice, with ink and paper. May these bridges be alive, covered in moss, growing and decaying as they serve their purpose.
I am willing to look/feel myopic and out-of-this-world. May this dark, funky path lead me to Me and to You and You.
I am bored of the world of words and story and explanation. May vibration, mood, grief, electricity, moss, and song flood my system. May it spill out into words that evoke movement, that cast spells, that shift energy.
I am sad for the gaps in my writing— not because the internet needs more words, but as a barometer on my willingness to touch and be seen here. May my Truest rhythms be honored. May I return over and over again.