I want excitement
to be born from
Like being presented
with another day
to live and breathe
Or knowing how very fortunate
to have all the
luxuries of life:
ready access to food
and countless modern conveniences.
I want excitement
to not be hinged on
having to go someplace
or do something
or be someone
I want excitement
to bubble up
from the deep cauldron
of my heart,
for the wondrous miracle to
This is my aspiration;
my winding path
through the thicket of collective hardships
and planetary throng of woes.
– penned today, July 10th, 2019, around 6am
Soft rain falling at 5:30am.
40-years ago today I was born,
head first into an air and water world
that agreed without being asked –
without question –
to take me on,
for however long:
40, 50, 70, 90 years.
This day is really all that matters.
Just like when tomorrow comes,
that day will be all that matters.
This day, with its arm extended and hand open
in everyone’s direction, all at once,
ready to guide us, one soft step at a time,
along whatever path we’re traveling.
Ready to go neck deep into the throngs of the urban jungle, hand-in-hand, if we so choose.
Ready to love a little more with us; sing the duet of sorrow with us; drop to its knees in prayer with us.
Ready to keep up with us in good company.
Ready to take us on.
This morning, I finished a new spoken word piece called Turning 40. Spoken word is the performance art of poetry, so it translates better in person verses on the page, but here it is anyway :)
Also, it’s worth mentioning that in my spoken word repertoire, this piece is by far the shortest. But sometimes, short and sweet and to the point just makes good sense.
I’m not interested in towing the heavy, lead-laden line given to me by those who’ve come before. The one that says I shouldn’t be on good terms with aging – ya know, the one that says I should pretend to be some other age than I actually am and would do well to color up over all this grey hair coming in.
The one that says I should learn creative ways to outstretch my neck or gain an affinity for scarves to cover up the fact that I have folds and that I lose my sexual allure the further I drift from the shores of 18.
You’re welcome to keep towing that line but I’m not interested. I am setting it down, in favor of something…more.
I wanna tow the line that says aging is part of life and not separate; I wanna end the drama filled strife by pursuing a life based on responses and not reactions; I wanna water the seeds of mad love for the whole of things and not split it up into fractions; and I wanna swim naked in the waters of whatever age I’m kicking in and embrace my body, the whole damn thing.
cuz there ain’t no shame in not being a size 2, there’s shame in playing the beauty-looks-like-this game that no one wins. I’m fixin’ to tow a different line, saddle up if you’re in cuz I’m not sweatin’ turning 40, I’ve been enjoying the ride since 1979 and I love this mixed-bag world – and for what it’s worth, I’m interested in towing the line of being more than a pretty girl.
In one month from today,
I’ll turn forty.
Does that mean something?
I think it might.
I think it might mean
bidding a fond farewell to a decade of time
book-ended by zeros
and ushering in a new one,
as though it were a crisp,
unwrinkled, never worn gown
to slip into and dance on
endlessly into the night.
Everything that meant anything important
I’ve learned so far,
I’ve learned from unlearning something else.
Like how love means letting go
not holding on,
and a life filled with meaning
has little to do with money.
Or how kindness is a superpower
not a weakness,
and angling towards joy
doesn’t mean to ignore the darkness,
it means to not ignore the light.
I have inherited a body of knowledge
not my own –
a body of paper skin and earthen bones, too.
scarred, broken, perfect.
Did I mention perfect?
There is nothing on this splendid,
spinning, blue-green marble planet,
strung like a pearl on its cosmic necklace,
that wasn’t supposed to happen,
simply for the fact that it did.
If my years so far could be distilled
into one sentiment worth mentioning,
it would be this:
To live a well-contented life,
it’s crucial to stop fighting.
To stop fighting:
To stop fighting with the truth of how every single thing –
and every single one of us, our self included –
is of the nature to change.
I flung open the door this morning –
both the door to start this ripe new day
and the actual door, serving as a boundary
between my slate floor kitchen and the concrete steps,
which when taken lead to the ground,
where all things manifest and are made possible.
Stone, concrete, earth –
all things, no matter how seemingly solid,
can break into shards.
Take this day, for example.
There’s no guarantee we’ll remain intact
by the end of it.
This day, just starting to unfold,
like an origami crane returning to its original paper state,
to be refolded as the day goes on
perhaps into another shape,
might very well be the end of it.
Interloping flowers mixed with pines,
moisture soaked earth perfumed
Mormon Creek surges
rushing in my ears
eager to hear all they can of this place.
The forest is still,
steeped in an outer quietude
that translates inside,
where my heart beats with a fierceness
mirrored by the raging of fire
and glows with the luminosity
of 10,000 points of light.
And then there’s the settling –
once the trees penetrate the forest
of my armor and misgivings.
A calm that hushes the
swingings of thought
and presses pause on the ol’ to-do list,
in the most reasonable of ways.
And there’s never any doubt –
blatant or subtle –
that this interplay of self and nature
is anything other than right,
sensical, profound and sacred.
It’s never been – or ever will be –
a waste of time to ratchet down
and breathe among the trees,
where roots wind in sprawl underfoot
and plans become a thing to be had
some place else.
My tired eyes are propped open
held deliciously captive by
sprigs of budding growth,
and the greening underbelly
I know at times it feels dark and bleak
to encounter the news –
or another day, or life.
I know when you feel uncertain
it’s the best case scenario,
as the more common alternatives are
fear and anger
I know that sometimes you wonder
how things could possibly get any worse;
and then they do
and you feel broken
all over again.
I also know that raging beauty
and unbounded goodness
and decency exist –
not only out right for all to see
but buried like treasure in the hearts of men,
So please, dear ones,
take my hand,
and let us become miners
in search of it.