In process – messages to myself

For weeks
I have been living
Inside a large ball of grief

Where pleasure and pain
And sleep and dreams
Seem to mix together
and its difficult to
tell top from bottom

And its many sources
Turn into one unintelligible beast

I have no words for it
Only a big dark hole in my insides
Full of dread and anger
And hopeless sadness
and so much fear
and I want someone to tell me
yes this is horrible
But it will get better
You will not always have this hole
It will fill with something better
Eventually

Just wait
Just slow down
Hold still
Let arms wrap around you
Let voices reach you
Just be still
And see if it feels any different
When you are quiet
If you can see another side
Or hear a bird calling
Brining you to another possible path
There are so many possibilities
Dear one
So many ways you cannot yet see

Maybe take a walk
Go up a hill and see how it looks from above
Change your vantage point
Breath the clean air
Speak to the trees, the ancient ones
With so much wisdom for us
Speak to them and then be still
And see if they speak back

Just try.
Even if it feels useless.
And when you don’t know who you can trust
And you doubt your own insides
Trust the trees and the ferns and the mushrooms
And all those ancient growing things
That belong to the earth
She is our mother and will not steer you wrong.

dying for spring

A woman in front
of me in line at the
market says she is
dying for spring.

I smile at her slip
imagining that on
the other end of
that phone is her
sister, living in some
far off land south
of the equator where
spring has an entirely
different meaning.

I wish others
could understand
and know
the grief that
accompanies
a loss
that is not quite
a loss.

Invisible
to the naked eye.
Hidden.
Unapparent
to those who haven’t
wandered through it.

But still
quite solidly real
and harrowing.

Days come together
like puzzle pieces.
I connect them
in interesting ways
trying desperately to
make something new.

National Guacamole Day

Its early on a Monday morning. Cold and quiet.
I coworker assembles a lab in the other room.
Your lab.
She puts the pieces together. I hear glass clinking
and it makes me miss you. How odd for her
to be touching your things. I watch her
and think to myself “you’re doing it wrong.”

Farming has made me see the world in cycles.
Clear and pronounced and complicated.
I feel torn, wanting rain for myself, but thinking – not yet.
Not just yet, the grapes aren’t ready.
Just a week more of sun. Maybe two.
 
Yesterday was National Guacamole Day.
A year ago on that day I told you
about the occasion, excited by my discovery.
You said, “We’d better go get some guac then.”
And we did.