i’ve hidden away in cavernous shadows
for so long
that as i coax myself into
myself
and we breathe together
between homecoming tears and the
golden arms of ascension
it feels
like
i’m the first fish to crawl above
water, taking
a great gasp of pure
evolution
When I return to my etheric form,
I will dance in the procession of colors.
Glowing ribbons reflected in oceans and rivers:
An expression of joy that follows the sun.
When our paints grow dim and our party lights fade,
Darling, please don’t think that I’m gone.
Just look for me in the moonlight
Or amongst leaves on the trees
And, of course, in your tender heartsong.
Give me tall trees instead of tall buildings,
Unruly undergrowth instead of urban sprawl —
Let me get lost in the forest,
And I’ll find my way to the center of my soul.
Gravity pulls like rip tides in my veins
To swirl amongst your forests and fish —
A child of your mist.
Growing along barbed wire,
Her petals
Hold scratches, cuts, and tears.
Still — she continues
To expand
To seed
To live her Truth.
And for that —
She is beautiful.
Nobody wanted my grandmother’s sewing table when they were splitting up her belongings. The table she painted sage green decades ago; the old paint chipping off in fragments.
And so, I inherited her table by fate.
Unwavering, shapely legs lead to carved, mandala stars at its knees. A flip drawer that still contains the two buttons, eight tails of thread, fourteen pins, and two clasps — just as she left them. A ridged lip with dark freckles leads to a splotchy top that I discovered, like a secret passageway, unfolds into a workspace. Nestled inside: a heavy, black, sewing machine embellished with gilded calligraphy. The hardware and craftsmanship of a bygone quality that was made before capitalism said things could not outlast their owners.
I wonder how it came to her. Was it a gift from her mother? I never thought to ask about her sewing table, inconspicuously housed in her upstairs room, in the corner she claimed as a painting nook. Now, it is in my art studio — a yurt to myself, a room of my own.
Her table found its way to me.
I graze my fingers across the top, scattering the flecks, and I see her. Covering over the somber wood to make it bright and cheerful. Like her paintings of fluffy clouds above pastoral landscapes; children and butterflies; daffodils, deities, and stuffed animals.
Studying her brushstrokes, I see her hands — elegant fingers I only knew in photographs — knobbed by the time they reached my memory. I see her transforming the gloominess. Giving it a delicate, whimsical shell.
Flaking the paint with my gentle touch, I remember hearing, after her death. Uncovering. Thirty years of anti-depressants that explained why she always seemed far away.
And how could an artist be happy in the confines of conventionality? Days regimented around care for others. The dreariness of living second-class to an upstanding member of the community, high-functioning — until it came to her indigo child. For whom being locked in the windowless, brick-lined basement was better than the alternative.
My fingers reveal more of the stoic wood underneath. And I feel her artist soul alive within mine. A creatrix of beauty. Only now our work is not of covering over, but of returning. To our truth, our power, and our freedom.
Because I can hold it all — the antique treasure, her long brushstrokes, and the dark spots.
My heart, a seed within soil, calls the heavens to coax me out of dormancy.
My arms, oaks on drought-afflicted land, ache from the lost embrace.
My outstretched hands, messengers between earth and sky, cast pollinated prayers to the wind:
Beloved, do not allow your creations to wither. Without you, we are not whole.
Nourish our roots with your abundance; bring forth the flowers of our soul.
Deliver us to ourselves, and let our purpose grow.
Seeking quiet stillness
Dormant life paused
Inhaling sacred silence
Space between actions and words.
Exhaling what cannot be held
Surrendered to journey within
To the depths, the truest core
Brought forth in time for Spring.
During this winter season, I’m making the final push to complete my first book! I’m on track to have it finished in Spring.
In order to prepare the release, I’m taking time off from publishing work here. Check out photos from my current travels on Instagram http://www.instagram.com/glamsient
Thoughts pour in; they swirl, forming a current, pulling more thoughts into the depths, growing tumultuous. They darken and become dangerous. I am caught, swept in by the undertow.
It’s loud and I can’t escape. I try to distract myself with other people’s stories, but more words and information makes it worse. I resent the people on the other side of the screen.
I say to myself, “wherever you go, there you are,” but I start my car anyway.
Outside city limits, traffic thins until I am alone on the road. I slow my pace, enjoying the view: farmhouses, oak trees, cattails growing from wet earth. I crest over a bend to see a wide open sky and rolling hills. A lake rests between peaks.
I arrive at the Buttermilk Bend trailhead. Signs announce Wildflower Tours at 11:00 am. It’s evening now, but I know I’m in the right place. I step onto the trail; the noise inside my head fades, replaced by the sound of the blue green river.
The Yuba rushes below me, through a valley she’s carved between foothills. I look into her. I see myself in her water; I am made of her, but she is greater than I. She is a force of life — mother to creation. She brings me back to myself, calling to her essence within my veins. I am not the dark and stormy waters of my mind; I am the observer of a free flowing river.
The trail follows the river’s path. We turn together. Curiosity ebbs and flows with the bends. Wildflowers line the path in blues, yellows, whites, purples, reds. They are compact, expansive, delicate, broad, intricate, simple, in boxes and in circles, fragrant and without scent.
My plugged-in lifestyle, the one that makes my head loud, is like eating plastic information out of plastic bags; I scroll through photos that have been altered; I read inane comments; I watch videos of people pretending; I question every news article, every statement; the part of my life that is lived through squares plugged into outlets makes me forget my true nature.
Wildflowers are a simple joy. When I see them, I feel a softening in my heart, a growing tenderness, an up-swelling of pleasant emotion.
The river sounds like the river primordial. It speaks the language of my soul. It washes my mind of the chaos and clutter I’ve accepted into it.
Nothing to plug in, no buttons to push, nothing to sell or buy.
Amongst the wildflowers, next the river, I come back to myself — the pure, unaltered state of breathing and living.
glamsient.me 