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.
Tuesday, March 31, 2020
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.
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.
Sunday, March 29, 2020
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)