I’m leaning in to the Fear,
for I know where these tears have been,
how I could be the touch they needed
temporarily, but always just enough
to light their way imperfectly
as they settle in the nape of your neck,
the place I left to arrive again
for deep time never stops
calling out our names.
Presence is but a balance beam,
the thin, or ever expansive line
dividing past and future
in a measure of breaths.
It’s slippery if not gritted
and we tend to count the steps
we think we have left
over the strength of our legs,
over the snowflakes landing
on our upturned palms.
Can you marvel at their melting,
stay with them whilst they pass away
and soak into the skin which remains?
Can you appreciate the sky
as it waters your present
or are you so busy avoiding the cold
that your fingers burn
on an imaginary fireplace?
Nature has a way
of pulling us closer to the source;
my mind once like stagnant water
now a spring well of loving kindness,
warmth streaming down into my chest
and out my skin in sunbeams.
This is real love;
thick with healing,
and I’m drunk from the call
of the wild side.
You have never truly held yourself
until every part is loved as truth;
the overwhelmed, the undernourished, the misaligned,
you are always unfinished business.
So kiss each with equal pleasure,
lips better spent on self affection
than speaking of self loathing.
Welcome home each particle of your being that never really left
but was silenced by the unenlightened mind.
We, wild spirits, being all at once in this one life time,
found here like some long lost siblings, my everything alive.
You are not so separate from the source
that any connection must do.
All start as bricks and mortar
but some become burning buildings that bury you.
This incarnation is a circular room
with an infinite number of doors;
stop paying attention to the pretty patterns on the walls
and place your damn fingers on a handle.
Practice the gripping
then practice the letting go,
then place a foot through the frame
into all the versions of you
this world is yet to know.
It becomes part of a spiritual practice
to take one’s shoes off,
leave life’s dirt at the door
and find grounding for the body
through soles of the feet
meeting cold, hard floor.
The glue that binds us to the present
whilst infinity shows up to greet my soul.
The source of the indeterminate.
It’s a universal concert
and I’ve got a standing ticket.
The place I go to be everywhere at once
by going nowhere at all.
The seats we sat on,
mine precariously, cross-legged but not comfortably,
balancing the weight of something both new and nostalgic,
the way you took off your denim jacket,
the way you fidget with your wristbands out of habit.
The cups we drank from,
yours plastic, mine ceramic.
I think they sensed the flush from our skin
when the ice in yours melted,
no attention paid to how they tasted.
We all knew, me and you didn’t show up for the coffee.
The ground we walked on,
mindless pacing yet purposeful.
Were our steps in time,
following the trail of crumbs through our past lives?
I’ll mark each stop with a cross,
treasuring the map that sends us round and round in buried circles.