this isn't how I planned for
my life to look like," I whispered
under my breath as I walked to my car
"tell me about it,"
an eavesdropping cloud
replied to me from above
I looked up and watched
the cloud billow between looking
like a dove and an open hand
the cloud continued:
"I used to be a snowfield in Montana.
I used to be a dewdrop kiss on a lily.
I used to be a puddle in a parking lot.
I used to be a river in Mexico.
I used to be a glacier.
I used to be a waterfall mist in a jungle.
I used to be so many things.
"doesn't that make you sad?" I asked the cloud
"it used to - but not anymore," the cloud replied while wrapping herself around me like a scarf. "I don't think either of us were created to stay the same form our entire life."
"I’m not sure I can let go of my old life," I sighed
"oh you simply must," the cloud whispered in my ear.
" because once you release what you used to be
and embrace who you are meant to be now -
something amazing will happen," the cloud said
"what's that?" I asked while looking at my hands that were beginning to billow and shapeshift.
"you'll start to float."
and with that my feet lifted off the ground
Always be drunk.
That's it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time's horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
Get drunk and stay that way.
On what?
On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans
or rolls
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock
will answer you:
"Time to get drunk!
Don't be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!"
I stalked her
in the grocery store: her crown
of snowy braids held in place by a great silver clip,
her erect bearing, radiating tenderness,
watching
the way she placed yogurt and avocados in her
basket,
beaming peace like the North Star.
I wanted to ask, "What aisle did you find
your serenity in, do you know
how to be married for fifty years or how to live
alone,
excuse me for interrupting, but you seem to
possess
some knowledge that makes the earth turn and
burn on its axis—"
But we don’t request such things from strangers
nowadays. So I said, "I love your hair."
my brain and
heart divorce
a decade ago
over who was
to blame about
how big of a mess
I have become
eventually,
they couldn't be
in the same room
with each other
now my head and heart
share custody of me
I stay with my brain
during the week
and my heart
gets me on weekends
they never speak to one another
- instead, they give me
the same note to pass
to each other every week
and their notes they
send to one another always
says the same thing:
"This is all your fault"
on Sundays
my heart complains
about how my
head has let me down
in the past
and on Wednesday
my head lists all
of the times my
heart has screwed
things up for me
in the future
they blame each
other for the
state of my life
there's been a lot
of yelling - and crying
so,
lately, I've been
spending a lot of
time with my gut
who serves as my
unofficial therapist
most nights, I sneak out of the
window in my ribcage
and slide down my spine
and collapse on my
gut's plush leather chair
that's always open for me
~ and I just sit sit sit sit
until the sun comes up
last evening,
my gut asked me
if I was having a hard
time being caught
between my heart
and my head
I nodded
I said I didn't know
if I could live with
either of them anymore
"my heart is always sad about
something that happened yesterday
while my head is always worried
about something that may happen tomorrow,"
I lamented
my gut squeezed my hand
"I just can't live with
my mistakes of the past
or my anxiety about the future,"
I sighed
my gut smiled and said:
"in that case,
you should
go stay with your
lungs for a while,"
I was confused
- the look on my face gave it away
"if you are exhausted about
your heart's obsession with
the fixed past and your mind's focus
on the uncertain future
your lungs are the perfect place for you
there is no yesterday in your lungs
there is no tomorrow there eithe
there is only now
there is only inhale
there is only exhale
there is only this moment
there is only breath
and in that breath
you can rest while your
heart and head work
their relationship out."
this morning,
while my brain
was busy reading
tea leaves
and while my
heart was staring
at old photographs
I packed a little
bag and walked
to the door of
my lungs
before I could even knock
she opened the door
with a smile and as
a gust of air embraced me
she said
"what took you so long?"
You keep waiting for something to happen,
the thing that lifts you out of yourself,
catapults you into doing all the things you've put off
the great things you're meant to do in life,
but somehow never quite get to.
You keep waiting for the planets to shift
the new moon to bring news,
the universe to align, something to give.
Meanwhile, the piles of papers, the laundry, the dishes, the job---
it all stacks up while you keep hoping
for some miracle to blast down upon you,
scattering the piles to the winds.
Sometimes you lie in bed, terrified of your life.
Sometimes you laugh at the privilege of waking.
But all the while, life goes on in its messy way.
And then you turn forty. Or fifty. Or sixty...
and some part of you realizes you are not alone
and you find signs of this in the animal kingdom---
when a snake sheds its skin, its eyes glaze over,
it slinks under a rock, not wanting to be touched,
and when caterpillar turns to butterfly,
if the pupa is brushed, it will die---
and when the bird taps its beak hungrily against the egg
it's because the thing is too small, too small,
and it needs to break out.
And midlife walks you into that wisdom
that this is what transformation looks like---
the mess of it, the tapping at the walls of your life,
the yearning and writhing and pushing,
until one day, one day
you emerge from the wreck
just as you are,
no, even better than that
because you know it now
both the immense dawn
and the dusk of the body
and it's all still there,
glistening and new.
.
It does not matter if it is good, if you use the right words
or the prettiest words, if you craft sentences complete
with commas and metaphors all in the right place.
.
It matters that it feels good, that you splash
around with joy, that you forget
the world for more than a while, that you make a merry mess,
feel the flap of wings against ribcage, that you mix
yellow and blue to make the just-right shade
of green, the green that reminds you of the field you rested in
.
when you were still considered young.
.
It does not matter if you win the contests,
collect the rewards, the credentials,
the most pats on the back, if all your As
are straight, if all your sentences come to a full stop.
.
It matters that you forget the push
of performance while you lean in close
to opening crocus, that you let something
in you open too.
.
It matters that you drape words
off the page - miles off the page
even, that you write your way to true -
that you feel the shake of a voice finally found -
.
the flutter of a voice finally free.
.
