10 years.

 I couldn't remember the exact date this year. 

October has gathered losses. by now, her arms are too full for me to see.

you. and faty. and lynda.  I imagine the crowd milling at the veil. eager to see us or to make small contacts. 

Or maybe you linger indifferently, noticing the thinning with a sigh. a sigh. how lost that word might be to you now. 

but it's not to me. I sigh. I think 'Si' and my mind and heart tumble like two lion cubs wrestling down a mountainside, gathering dirt and sticks. You've become someone else or more yourself day by day.

there is still a longing for a word of kindness, an embrace, a way you might've looked at me, a moment of being seen. that will be a hole in my skin that I will pick at for the rest of my days, I imagine. a futile and desperate reach into an empty space that will never fill. 

my work to do.

there is a change in the measure of grief. it is a wide net that feels like a thin sky. like fog. like almost rain. most of the time I don't break my stride. most of the time I don't need a jacket or an umbrella. most of the time I just keep walking; sometimes wishing I was inside.

I wonder about you. if there's a you to remember me. I still can't wrap myself around the thought of all of you gone forever and nevermore. yet it's the way it is, isn't it? What makes me hope for some returning and hopeful reunion? I was never bought into the pearly gates, where everyone lives in shangri-la in fields of flowers and sun showers and rainbows. There's not some village where all of you are shimmying around in white flowing robes, full of love and laughter. Theres' not going to be a group hug waiting for me at the end of my days. 

this rumination stalks me.

I am not seated in my roots. I have lost them somewhere and I don't know where to return. I live in chaotic hope that something good happens in the end. That all the loss is not lost. I can't bear that P's terrified eyes are last of her. that Faty's suffering was her final statement to the world. that Lynda left without finishing her thought. that you lost everything in the end. It grieves me.

I watch my own denial that rises from groundlessness. I am like an astronaut, loose in the atmosphere with no way to navigate. I drift and drift, embraced by fear, into a no sky of no answers and no ground. Everything is tethered lightly. everything is cut free and falls away into nothingness and no more.

I don't know if I am made for this.

are you kidding me with this shit?

enough.
I just read a post that a facebook "friend" wrote. She asked "what's the big deal with Aunt Jemima pancake syrup? Why are they changing the name and brand?"  Several people responded with basic and simple human empathy. Essentially this: it is racist, it hurts people, and it is symbolic of hate...tipping the hat to slavery, folks. Capitalizing on the "good, clean fun" of the good 'ol days of blackface and happy negroes doing a song and dance for the white people. It's a symbol of the kidnap and enslavement and dehumanization of an entire race of people who still live within the wounds of that despicable (and economic) choice that has caused infinite suffering and oppression of a people for 400 fucking years. And, yet, this fuckwad continued to ask...why? who's hurt? where's the proof? um...open your fucking eyes! Thousands of people are marching in the streets. Black Lives Matter is a global wave that is pressuring changes in police training, laws, and waking people up to their white privilege. ALL OVER THE WORLD.
It is the saturation of her privilege that disables her capacity to notice, or worse, to care, that people are shouting from the rooftops that they are hurting. She calls this issue "minutiae." I just can't with this person. I just can't.

And, then don't get me started. I've always had the gut feeling of the husband and wife SE team that is big into marketing and putting out product. It's always felt suspect. I've worked with clients that have done the "online at home program" that the wife sells and I've handled the clean-up. It's a mess. Well, this guy....ug...this guy...just put out a holier than thou, "let me 'splain it all to you, cuz I'm the boss man" explanation of what trauma is and what it isn't. His long-winded post is essentially a cut and paste of the basics of SE without the understanding of the complexities and nuances of the message of "trauma happens in the physiology." He negates the existence of traumas like racism, sexism, ageism, ableism, etc because they don't package tightly into the ('scuse me while I push my glasses up off my nose) categories of shock trauma or developmental trauma. Um....So, he's basically proclaiming, with a puffed up chest, that it just can't be. It's not in one of those categories...must just be abuse. a big ass hurt. but, not trauma.
I beg to fucking differ, dude.
Oh, and by the way, it's a big fucking giveaway that you're a classic narcissist when your FB photos are an endless album of only you and your fucking mug. Filled, of course, with comments about how deep and profound your blue eyes are. Excuse me while I vomit. Oh, that and the PLANfuckingDEMIC video you posted amidst the very real, people are fucking dying, COVID pandemic.

I just can't with these fucking people.

day 45

it's late in the evening and I wanted to write. but I don't want to write because I want to go to bed for the night.
but I wanted to write, too.
just did a maggie valley community fire: my loved ones. family. mom, linda, julie, jim, shannon from afar, cindy and 4 other sweet people. just right. so lovely.
I wept at the end of the night,
feeling my heart.

but there's somethings I'll catch up on soon
broken bird eggs and sorrow and grief.
a magician of a mouse.
an organized garage.
a pending garbage run.
my first dogwood bloom and I feel like a new mom.
the redbuds starting to purple.
the apples greening right before my eyes.
the blueberries arriving.
the asparagus triumphant!
the paw paws peeking into light.
the abuja purples everywhere.
the birds, the birds, the birds...song, color, flurry!
love love love
everywhere.

31 march. day 27

I counted the days inside, or at least away from
others.
the day after my heart broke.
that's when the distancing began.
sooner than others
and for different reasons.
but,
the reasons merged and
so,
I stayed inside
except for
a trip to the nursery for soil and trees; fruit and nut.
2 trips to the grocery store, wearing gloves. feeling scared because no one was staying away.
a trip to lowe's. an ultrasonic plug in non-harmful mouse repellant for the mouse who wants to eat what food we have.
a trip to the dump to get rid of garbage. no contact with humans. just birds and birds.
a porch visit over 10 feet away from my beautiful mama and the beautiful spring day, and Moki barking at us from inside.

but I'm outside a lot.
walking the neighborhood hills
listening to birds, talking to birds, let's be real.
putting my hands in the earth, planting seeds, watching for something new to come to life
like the bud on the dogwoods in the front,
the tiny buds on the red bud.
the hibiscus are greening,
the leaves on the roses are readying.
everyone else is waiting to bloom.
we'll see who makes it.

I spent the morning with clients on zoom.
barefooted in my cozy leggings.
I took a ballet class on my lunch break.
I'm on day 10 of daily classes. maybe more, but at least 10.
my body is sore. I'm older and rusty.
a little at a time.
but my soul is happy
and my muscles feel purposeful, finally.

I would like to do more reading,
watching movies.

yesterday, I watched dance.
Ailey's Revelations; the piece that I saw live at UF and decided I wanted to pursue a career in dance. and so I did.
Nederlands Dans Theatre's "Stop Motion" literally stilled my heart. made me yearn. inspired me to be young again, start dance as a child, train, and put every ounce of my soul into it. to dance, to choreograph, to create. it hurt my heart as much as it healed it.

a few days ago Kidd Pivot's "Dark Matter" also. a mixture of inspiration, ache and longing, and sheer reverence.

there's anxiety. always.
there's gratitude. always.
i'm afraid of how fast this virus spreads and how sufferable it is.
I pray. always.

the walkers. the support team. for the ceremonies at Tsantawu...
including my sister.
I pray. always.

day 31 the one month anniversary

in the shower tonight,
my thoughts caught up with me.
her face, in agony, flashed in front of me.
there was no sound,
just the twisting of her mouth, and the
falling backwards
out of this life
out of life
as we knew it
but
we didn't know it
yet.

that would come later.
not much later
because the ringing inside of me, the pull of the alarm
had been sounding for some time.
so long, in fact,
that the anticipation of this catastrophe
became more like an undercurrent,
a drone in the airwaves,
a constant static.

and
everyone,
for so long,
told me it was just
anxiety.

now I know.
now I know I knew.
I'm the soot soaked yellow bird,
weak in the wings
watching everyone run from the center of the earth.

I don't want to be right.
I don't want to say, "see?"
I want to be wrong.
to shake my head from the spell of this time
and to wake up to
a world alive and healthy, people connected and respectful, animals, earth, ocean, and sky.
love, laughter, joy, wellness, and ease.

we're in a blur.
I facetimed ever so briefly with my old friend, Hollond...
in the midst of it I felt myself lean out over the edge
I touched the edges of a whirl of terror
I almost fell in to the center
I felt the panic whir past me, ruffling my skin
because.
an old friend, naturally, incites memory
of a time, a world, an innocence.
and
tonight
she was telling me about the challenges of
teaching her classroom,
keeping her kids safe,
what it's like for her in quarantine..
and it
all
suddenly
felt
real.

and I felt trapped.

a blink ago, we were goofing off in the dance studios at New World,
dancing around South Beach,
laughing through the streets of New York,
double dating,
being silly,
holding each other up through
anxiety, depression, recovery, triumphs, losses.

and blink,
the next step is fragile.
and we are suddenly old and vulnerable
and no one, none of us,
not our youthful selves
can be sure about how many days we have left
and how much suffering there will be.

not that we have ever known.
but now,
it is the storm whirring past
and it is blowing our hair
and
wobbling our legs beneath us.

I'm afraid today.

and I'm so so so very tired.
I barely got through a 45 minute improv class that was really good.
I'm just super fatigued.
and, so
I'm afraid.

and today is the one month anniversary of the loss of my sweet pea.

days

how can days with out seams be too short?
they're not. there is an aliveness that stirs and has awakened many roads of inquiry.
it takes time.
and now that I have more of it, there is more expansion.
still,
I am waiting for that buzzing drone inside me to settle.
that buzz that feels urgency.
that buzz that feels pressure.
that buzz that says there isn't enough time, time will run out, and I will miss out, be undone, unfinished....
I say to myself, "you can't do it all. move at the rhythm that nurtures you, not the one that lives in a constant state of deprivation and starvation. you are enough. there is enough. all is well. it's safe to slow down..."
there it is.
it's safe to slow down
it's safe to slow down.
my face wrinkles in doubt.

I slowed down yesterday on a morning walk. it was safe.
the warm spring breeze was filling me with a relaxed joy.
and the images came.
a twisted jaw, eyes, wild with fear and pain,
thrashing legs and hooves,
mud and blood and screaming panic.

I've been able to find some distance between it and me, not intentionally, but there has been a capacity for placing it over there somewhere. some other place. some other time. I still haven't been to the barn. it's not fully real.
she could still be there.

but I know, in these slowed and still moments,
she's not.

she's walked up the hill, looked back at me and vanished from my view.
she's gone.

my heart burns to write it.
to put it in front of my eyes to see.

but in this time of the pandemic. of not going anywhere, really,
of being house held since march 4 (it's now march 29)
it holds a certain quality of fiction.

a terrible story.
but, a story.

arla

I'm here to speak about you.

where do I begin? I've grown to know you more in the last few months than I knew you in my lifetime. I've sat with you and listened to your stories, held your hand and looked into your beautiful blue eyes that have seen so much, cried with you. We sad goodbye so many times. We talked openly, nothing to lose, about life, fear, love, death. all of it. fearlessly. I've stroked your hands and forehead. unfurled your fingers in my hands, in life and then death. always in wonder of your soft skin. always in wonder of how many years your fierce body strode this earth, your strong voice burrowed into truth.

I remember being little. young. staying with you and grandpa overnight in clearwater. thunderstorms. I was always anxious. You taught me how to make flowers out of clay. I remember the rumble and shake of the train behind your house. sitting on the back porch, watching birds. I remember a summer sunset over the st. lawrence river, listening to the lapping of the waves from your cottage in Canada.

you shared stories. I only had to ask one question and you would unfold our family tree like a well worn book. You would sift through the pages of that book and paint full pictures of the people in our family. who married whom, who left whom, who died young, the favorite song of this person, or the peculiar habit of this person. You brought the years to life, inviting your listeners to taste the particular apple varieties that you loved so much (your time picking them fresh from the orchard when you were young). You smoothed the dust off of old ancestors who easily could have become names in a ledger. You animated them with their emotional storms and silences, their passions for books or theatre, their oppressions and their brilliant gifts. In the last few months, especially, you shared without edit or censorship, and offered the great gift of truth telling. I learned that our family is strong and petty and generous and smart, full of good choices, bad choices, questionable choices. they are adventurous and meek, kind and cruel, afraid and fearless, messy, flawed, and fallible. complicated and beautiful and human.

you were a force and you only grew stronger in your commitment to justice as you grew older. If you sensed or knew about anyone being treated poorly, or neglected, or taken advantage of, you rose to the cause and persisted until some resolution or repair was achieved. You'd use your voice and talk, call, write, whomever you needed to, and you'd keep talking.  You were stubborn and independent.

maybe the rain.

maybe the rain is here for me to remember to grieve.
that's a joke.
I don't need a reminder to grieve. but, I do need the rain.
I'm blanketed in grey; on the outside of life for the moment.
hungry for laughter and old friends that don't need introductions; people who know my story and I know theirs, so we start from the step we're on.
laughing or crying or just just...whatever will be.
I'm hungry for answers to the holes in my heart. the sniper fire that came from nowhere. I'm still searching the rooftops for the why.

my heart has been broken by the women I have loved the most. the sisters who have been invited into the sanctuary. the ones with invisible cloaks and hidden daggers.
I still spin round and round trying to pull the blade from the back of my heart, wondering why.
I am weary for the answers to why I was not loved.

the crone in me sees wisely.
the wound in others, the vast and crinkled darkness of their souls, could not conceal itself in the proximity of truth. we were too close and, so, too submerged in visibility.
the light must be shattered. without kindness or honor.

we were knitted together for over a decade, swapping tears, laughter, stories and hope. we built the barricades of protection for each other. we helped each other stand.
then, now, forever...
she betrayed everything with no words, no glance, no trail.
just dust. mist. vapor.
I hear her name today; a mutual is praising her for the support she gives, the lifeline she provides.
and my own abandonment breaks open and blood is spilling.
i'm downed and spiraling in aloneness.
trying to ward off the proclamations emerging from my insides: nobody likes you. you are not loveable. when people truly get to know you, they will leave you. you will never be loved the way you crave it. everyone will leave you and betray you. You are nothing.

and I know, crone speaking again, that somehow this can't be true. that no one being on this earth is any of those things. even the vilest of them all. and I am not vile.
I am not malicious or vengeful or harmful. I love. I am loyal. I am kind and, especially for those dear to me, I have the whole space of my heart to give.

or I did.

several losses later and the ship begins to sink.
I'm still kind and I still care but, only one or two have access to my heart and the private sanctuary of me anymore.
and this, to date, makes for a lot of loneliness.
I'm not included or very much celebrated anymore for my life by most people.
I'm falling and fading into nothingness. If I didn't go out into the world, there are only 3 people who might notice.
looking at it another way, that's something to be grateful for.
and, it's a mighty burden on those 3. and a fear of abandonment that I carry.