Remember all the way back in the third week of January, I started my "Fifty First Weeks" series of Monday posts, intended as all Mondays the rest of the year? Things went a bit off course, didn't they. But (not to steal my own thunder) the whole principle of "Fifty First Weeks" is that one can always start a day, or a time of day, as fresh time.
(Have you ever tried to braid rocks? Me either, but I'm trying to now, to braid touchstones with a return to returning, and returning, and returning to the metaphorical saddle.)
Stones can impress, can be similes in their very being. They can also protect. Helmet rock:
Things went off track and I went away, and then I came home and things continued hectic; I didn't get back on track and I didn't get back in the saddle and I didn't write all that was in my head, and I felt like an unmilked cow.
Glittery objects picked up don't always retain their luster, and the perspective is very different on opposite sides of a hill.
I knew my attitude was wrong: that I should have seen spending time with my mother-in-law in a beautiful house, taking care of cute chickens and a pair of neurotic little dogs who somehow like me, as a wonderful opportunity; possibly a source of much poetic inspiration; rather than a tightening in my throat. The same for numerous other activities this past month or two.
I forgot to remember where I came from this lifetime, or three months ago.
I forgot to remember where I came from on the scale of this universe.
I forgot the ease that comes out of moving with the flow. Actually, that's seldom been easy for me, and I also know that the flow can be a destructive onslaught--the rocks underneath our own home are under its threat.
What flows can move rocks and pile up mountains out of what has been moved.
I need to accept that our life here is going to be studded with visitors and travel and other chaos, and not use that as an excuse to fall in the hole. Learning to work around these must be part of my challenge in life, which means at some level I have chosen it.
After all, I seem to pick up the same rocks over and over again...
I always have potential poems going through my head, and wish I were better at making the time to write them. The most upsetting part about the recent sequence was the feeling that that voice had gone quiet; that only the disinfectant tinnitus was left, more unbearable than silence
I'm finding my way back to that little opening of space in the midst of the heavy clay (a different sort of hole to fall into), since...
There's constriction in my throat, a lot of 'throat chakra' "stuff," energy I need to work with.
...even a stone can mime singing.
The message over and over is, Do the work. Do it no matter your complaints about the circumstances. Mess up, and start over.
And sometimes, you'll pick up a rock entirely different from all the others, with a whole new metaphor within it.
I was gone for a long time over the summer. Physically, I've lost almost all my reluctant gains during that time. However, all along and even at the time I said the most useful aspect of the whole experience was all that I learned about communication, boundaries, awareness of other people's intended self-portrayals rather than blurt-empathy.
And these past few days, I keep getting the message to be more precise in my own communication, more fearlessly honest, more impeccable with my word. I take that to heart in my conversations; I take it to heart in my creative writing also. Thus far, I've been pretty cranky a few times--but I can always start over.
Speaking of which, I'm aware that I haven't posted a single recipe since I got home. The reasons for that may be obvious superficially; I'm also still puzzling over what this blog is about. I'm ready to make some changes, even if they're just cosmetic, but recipes at some level of frequency will return.
Much love.
