stream-of-conciousness. writing in the dark
"I am sitting here wanting
memories to teach me
to see the beauty in the world through my own eyes"
A box of letters- loves lost. Another of beautiful tools to mend souls and seek ideas, buried under old diaries and postcards. One dirty tee-shirt, one clean, neither mine. One shirt with a label of love, given to show. A pot of daffodils to brighten my room. Flowers I gave to myself. "stop waiting for a man to give you flowers, and learn to tend your own garden". Postcards, travels, writing, costumes. Sketchbooks full of ideas. A box of chocolates with two missing. Many hats to wear.
Contents of mind, contents of room.
I am sitting here...
beautiful memories. So many that the pressure of the beauty pushes against the inside of my chest and catches in my throat.
I am sitting here wanting...
There has been so much beauty in my life, so much intensity and fullnes of ideas. So many that has yet to be realized. Gardens shut in closets.
I miss the daily fellowship of hands to help me tend them, mouths to feed with them. But there are always mouths to feed.
I can do things that few people really have talent for, and I have put my hands in my pockets to hide their shame. Hidden my form in loose old clothes. I want a garden of roses, not only tomatoes.
And as much as I miss the close company I was privledged to have, I cherish also the memories of a tiny house, with only my garden, my river and my cat. To give the simple gift of a smile, to nurture a child's confidence. Such wealth.
So much beauty. I sometimes think that we cannot bear the beauty of things as they are- even the beauty in the sad corners of a crooked street. The beauty in the sadness and the muck of life itself. I think we blind ourselves so that we do not burst with it.
Few have the strength to see and survive such beauty, such sadness.
I recall a lost child, cold and blue on a steel table. I am too short to see her without standing on my toes. I want to take that child to my breast, to nurture life. Were we sisters, or twins? Would she have wanted to take me up in her arms?
Sometimes I feel like all children are mine. And in every person, I see a child. Layers of defenses, fears and wisdom clothe those children. They steal your car and take your ex-rays. When I allow myself the moment to see it, I want to put each one on the balance beam and tell them they can do it. Tell them they are cared for, hold them.
But we do not survive this way.
Is it possible to live it? Every day is so distracting. My own layers of experience wrap around me and block my view, dull my senses- like a child bundled up for the snow, too insulated to move. Is it possible to sit in the snow, naked to the elements? Or is that a trick for a monk?
How lonely are monks? I do not know. If the world is all closeness and contact, does that overwhelm one to insensibility to the individual touch of a warm hand? Would you notice it among so many other sensations?
There is a loneliness in me that I feel can only be filled by the entire world. What bold fool would try and take its place? Impossible.
And yet, who would partner someone and be second to such greatness?
These are the dreams and dilemas that tug the corners of my mind, twine out of the closet, seeking light.
memories to teach me
to see the beauty in the world through my own eyes"
A box of letters- loves lost. Another of beautiful tools to mend souls and seek ideas, buried under old diaries and postcards. One dirty tee-shirt, one clean, neither mine. One shirt with a label of love, given to show. A pot of daffodils to brighten my room. Flowers I gave to myself. "stop waiting for a man to give you flowers, and learn to tend your own garden". Postcards, travels, writing, costumes. Sketchbooks full of ideas. A box of chocolates with two missing. Many hats to wear.
Contents of mind, contents of room.
I am sitting here...
beautiful memories. So many that the pressure of the beauty pushes against the inside of my chest and catches in my throat.
I am sitting here wanting...
There has been so much beauty in my life, so much intensity and fullnes of ideas. So many that has yet to be realized. Gardens shut in closets.
I miss the daily fellowship of hands to help me tend them, mouths to feed with them. But there are always mouths to feed.
I can do things that few people really have talent for, and I have put my hands in my pockets to hide their shame. Hidden my form in loose old clothes. I want a garden of roses, not only tomatoes.
And as much as I miss the close company I was privledged to have, I cherish also the memories of a tiny house, with only my garden, my river and my cat. To give the simple gift of a smile, to nurture a child's confidence. Such wealth.
So much beauty. I sometimes think that we cannot bear the beauty of things as they are- even the beauty in the sad corners of a crooked street. The beauty in the sadness and the muck of life itself. I think we blind ourselves so that we do not burst with it.
Few have the strength to see and survive such beauty, such sadness.
I recall a lost child, cold and blue on a steel table. I am too short to see her without standing on my toes. I want to take that child to my breast, to nurture life. Were we sisters, or twins? Would she have wanted to take me up in her arms?
Sometimes I feel like all children are mine. And in every person, I see a child. Layers of defenses, fears and wisdom clothe those children. They steal your car and take your ex-rays. When I allow myself the moment to see it, I want to put each one on the balance beam and tell them they can do it. Tell them they are cared for, hold them.
But we do not survive this way.
Is it possible to live it? Every day is so distracting. My own layers of experience wrap around me and block my view, dull my senses- like a child bundled up for the snow, too insulated to move. Is it possible to sit in the snow, naked to the elements? Or is that a trick for a monk?
How lonely are monks? I do not know. If the world is all closeness and contact, does that overwhelm one to insensibility to the individual touch of a warm hand? Would you notice it among so many other sensations?
There is a loneliness in me that I feel can only be filled by the entire world. What bold fool would try and take its place? Impossible.
And yet, who would partner someone and be second to such greatness?
These are the dreams and dilemas that tug the corners of my mind, twine out of the closet, seeking light.