I’m trying to save that piece of myself that doesn’t want to be saved. Every time I latch onto something I remember all the things I had to let go of to be here. This is what swimming through the ocean feels like. You are alone. Yet you are surrounded in every direction. Part of the largest body you will ever conceive of. Holding the only solid thing to ever support you. There you are. A blip on the map to nowhere in particular. No longer searching you bob, poised in the tension between all you can see above, and all you can see below, both unknowable, which way will you look? This is your holy land. Contained on the heart you carry in the psalm that you never learned to recite tracing back to your mothers heresey. A triason of devotion. To the unknown. A curious feeling of bleak unending fire lit unqunchable. Ask too many questions. Trust only the silence between faux answers fashioned after the times. We only know what we know already from there we guess what might lie beyond. Holding hands across the great divide. There is comfort in mutually agreed disorientation. We draw our own maps of the tides. This one turns us out of ourselves into unrecognizanle vessels of truth. This one draws us into our own mystery cinching day dreams along fault lines. The finger traces life lines snugly fit to my cradle of questions. The blood is in the unlearning the ticks that make a heart beat until we are finally still. Accept nothing. Be nothing. Practice meanwhile. That our hearts might freeze wide open like song birds on window sill in first cracks of spring. I’m alone in my thoughts as I undress myself after the spill. Ink blotched, hen scratched, eye ball disattached. The flowers had the look of flowers that are looked at. Even after all this time I am still myself, but perhaps more so than last I checked. Wilted as it is bloomed. The seed sprouts mind first and tastes expression last. Bitter sweet remembering. Gift yet to be unwrapped.
I wanted to write something about my time as a labbit in the One Yellow Rabbit summer intensive with Denise Clarke, but everytime I tried to sum it up words seem to fail me. So naturally I returned to the poetic impressionism that pours out of my heart in times of divine inspiration. Thank you to the rabbits, labbits, and generous hearts that made this experience so memorable. I carry each of your cadouri in my heart.