Tired

I’m tired.

She clung to me like I was the only raft

In the middle of the ocean.

Her only supply of water, food, security.

We were surrounded by people but

Only I existed.

To be four.

I’m tired.

He ran around the room like there was only his friend.

It was crowded and hot and full of food and drink to knock over.

“Please stop,” went unheard.

If only I existed.

To be seven.

I’m tired.

For six months my mind has been shot out of a cannon.

I’ve been working to understand.

I’m tired.

I don’t feel like doing this

I don’t feel like doing that

All I want to do is make something that is complete and whole and resonates.

Oh yeah,

4 and 7

A song is sung,

vibrating across the universe,

echoing beyond perception.

Rejoice and be glad…

You’re tired.

Latent

I used to wait in the darkroom—latent image…emerging.

I used to wait for their eyes to pop—students watching, latent image…both emerging.

I used to wait for my children to be born—latent beings, full already…how could I have known?

I used to wait for my parents to call, my parents to die, for myself…to die.

How could I possibly have known?

That the latent image just needed to develop?

Latent: Ready, Full, Hidden.

Then, the magic occurs. Chemistry or is it alchemy, reveals the image. Magic.

Life.

Reality.

Back, to Magic.

For the image to hold it needs to be fixed. After it’s revealed, there’s no need to wait, any longer. The potential has been revealed. After the mourning, the image can be revealed in the full light of day. Poetry and pock marks, all to see.

For now, the worst has passed. More to come, but, my worst has passed, for now.

It’s time to bring out the helium tank. Small, limp balloons stand at the ready—plump, buoyant communicators of joy, hope, potential—latent heralds of a new day.

River

That deepest river of the mind, heart, soul,

It needs to run…always.

As long as it runs it will remain clear of bacteria,

Corrosive invaders of knowing.

As long as it runs it will remain fresh, suitable for drinking.

The seasons will dictate the pace of its flow: rushing torrent, slow groovy ride.

As long as it moves, it will remain suitable for drinking.

Practice, discipline, remembering to remember:

The tools and activities of the deeper self.

These are the forces that break through the corks of bottled self.

Forces that keep the water running—crisp and cool, at the ready to soothe a dry mouth, a dry heart, a dry eye.

Currents

The flood gates have opened.

The waters are rushing and I sit here, wondering…

Should I hold on tight and ride them, level 4 rapids.

Or

Should I let go and let the water overtake me and move more fully with the currents.

What does it mean, exactly, to drown?

What’s worse, drowning in the turmoil of a day-to-day not fully realized,

Or

Drowning in the rushing river of creativity and connection?

What IS balance. I don’t know how to surf. I know how to swim, for the most part. I know how to tread water. Oh yeah, now I remember…

I know how to spend hours in the water, imagining I’m a dolphin. Practicing somersaults. Handstands. Swan dives.

I remember that other world, under the water, with it’s own colors and sounds and smells, away from the shore of immediate reality. I was supposed to go to swim team practice every morning of that one summer. Instead, I lied and went to the pool, alone, and swam for hours by myself. I wasn’t lonely, I wasn’t even alone.

I was with myself--gorgeous, glimmering, gliding dolphin; magnificent mermaid; sinewy swan. I was with no one in particular and everyone at once, creating my own currents beyond holding on or letting go. I was just a girl, flipping somersaults, holding my breath in order to breathe.

Ocean in a Paper Cup

The independent, feminist, rocker Ani Di Franco advises me that you can't contain the ocean in a paper cup.

The Vietnamese, Buddhist sage Thich Nhat Hahn instructs me that I can consume the ocean in a drop of water.

We can't hold onto that which is too vast and lovely and powerful and beautiful by insisting it be contained in some vessel that is out of scale, out of pace, out of durability.

I forget this when I get annoyed that my six year old son takes an hour to eat an egg and piece of toast because there are ideas to explore, gadgets to try, concepts to explore, wiggles to stretch, urine to secrete, secrets to unfold.

Then I help my three year old daughter on with her tights. I hold HER tight, on my lap. I smell the softness of her flowing hair. I assess her strong and now steady legs that still contain the armor of softness, shielding her from womanhood. I raise each tight smoothly and thoroughly up her leg, making sure the crotch hits in just the right place-not too saggy, not too high. I know it's probably futile, but I try nonetheless and desperately to ensure her comfort. Her innocence, her growing limbs, our intimacy, her inevitable separation are all contained in this moment.

Her brother looks at me. Long body, long limbs but still with that soft, baby face. Baby legs...baby face. He looks at me with long lashed, twinkling eyes. He needs to brush his teeth but has to do "just one more thing," and needs to "tell me one more thing."

Tell me, sweet boy. Tell me to slow down. Quench my seemingly insatiable thirst to be somewhere, do something, be someone. Quench my thirst with one delicious drop of inquiry, one delicious distraction.

I wish to hold, hold, hold, but I know all of this can't be contained. It's too vast, it's too deep, it's too powerful. The river of time drains methodically, predictably towards the ocean and my paper cup just ain't strong enough. But if I just let it go, for this moment, I will feel the sweet refreshment wash over me like a sky freshly washed from rain, like an eye freshly washed from tears.