Sometimes I feel I have lost contact with that voice that was rising,
active in words
Or with that feeling that was rising,
active in color.
I hear other’s voices saying what I am saying
I read passages of wisdom and remember the views I held to be so true.
The expressive nature of the creative has a rhythm.
Rather than doubting its presence,
Now I move with it.
I wake early these days.
I saw the light appear in the dark sky this morning
soon the sun shining on the far mountains, through the trees,
and I was so surprised,
to be awake to this day’s beginning.
There are practical things that need to be done
Each move toward them ensures a completion of the task.
I can be practical, too.
I remember walking into a day
Feeling the unknown
Feeling the ever so slight fear of life
And stepping into that day,
Like a doorway it was,
And knowing I had felt courage, too.
There were moments before that,
Feelings of a shattering of a sort,
The weight of not knowing,
Before it was known as freedom,
of dying while being reborn.
I planted a garden
And tended it
Slowly at first
Realizing how deeply nourishing that was
To putter in the dirt, to weed,
Just to be there,
Seeing what could be done.
I returned day after day.
the garden grew
and I tasted freshness again.
I asked myself
it always feels just like yesterday…..
I asked myself
When did being here now begin?
So many fine and awkward movements have spilled me deeper into this life current.
A slight movement
In any direction
And it’s as if I was always here.