I want to believe I’m over this greif. The year that was brimming with excited fullness that then got wrung tight. Expunged down the drain, hiding in some dark network of unknowable origins or end use. And if we’re to calendarize, still far from over.
… so much death, unnecessary and necessary destruction, plans that didn’t come to fruition, planning for an unknown future. I’ve come to terms with it, I welcome the rebuilding. Let’s get sweaty and MAKE something new. Hands with the earth, in tandem, raising something fresh.
I’m invested in the physicality of where we stand. Watching for potholes is my new favorite game; it keeps the blood pumping hard and hearty. I have my days of wavering with the wind and being exhausted with striding against it. My roots have helped, whether I like where they are planted or not, I’m tending to their tenure. They’ve been remarkably stable and flexible allowing for that sweet, sweet sway.
My roots are funny things, squirming and elongated in a mixture of soils. They even adhere to the tentacles of others. Shape shifting like a mystic octopus; is that your thought or mine?! Luck with me, I’ve had this opportunity to be so close as to reflect.
I feel like my love gets rejected again and again. And I feel as though I retract my love again and again. This duplicity I carry and wear proudly, can feel like enemy. It rears its head when I’m anticipating it to settle, it stays hidden in the closet when I need it to fight bravely.
Nope: you don’t get to hold my vulnerability. You don’t care for it as I see fit. You turn it down, you flip it around… stop! You’re stripping it! Give it back so I can bury it deep or regift. But sometimes, it’s just too late. Awareness is not the easier route.
Or I want you to hold it; please hold it. Your hands are soft, but the arms go lax and it tumbles to the ground with a tremendous splatter. A mess that I will need to spend months cleaning up. The well orchestrated pass-off became a reminder that all good plays come from practice.
The learnings of loss is still a form of greif, I’ve gathered. I think Ms. Kubler-Ross and Mr. Kessler would agree in their own words. The people/places/things have been dredged of their original meaning and are now hanging on the clothesline billowing in the wind. Dancing timidly or excitingly into their next posture.
roadside yogi 