On Natalie Goldberg’s “Writing Down the Bones”

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the time spent writing vs daydreaming is profoundly alarming when gazed upon by a well-balanced citizen , actively participating in a work-life ratio equated to healthy

How much time do I spend researching historical photos of dead people or reading old love letters or treasure hunts?

I am struggling with the idea of  convection

the heat given off of the what I read

Stories I download through the busy days

The coffee shop hum

A vortex of inspiration within a vortex Guatemala pour-over

Unravel it all in the evening

bath bubbles

Unwinding in the winding Frenchie’s Field path

Equinox moon makes my heavy heart balloon

Composting the ideas

Where’s my pen?

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I’ve been told that I have an inability to handle reality at times.

That I am forever childlike.

The hardness in my heartbeats mount with horror films, high volumes, jealousy, pride,  and fear in this stark, real world.

We had a hard-water well when I was small

Hard decisions were made in front of my growing mind. Hard words and tough choices.

I remember the softness in my cat’s belly. The silky feel of my mothers arm. The gentle music of late-night adult parties that soothed me to sleep.

The hard shrill shrieks of frustrated family drives. The sirens and hard fears of my physical foundations.

The walls that surrounded me were always changing

The dark days fall through the gaps in my childhood reel,

Lighter, vignette memories distort truths, to where I’m left with fairies, dense green forests, sun -speckled afternoons on clovers in the midwest backyards of my youth.

Reading books in the solitude of my bedroom daydreams,

pillows propped my gangly shoulder blades, carefully sorted halloween candy on my lap.

mermaids and dolls in warm bath bubbles, fantasy worlds of beauty and rescue.

Let her be little.

 

 

 

 

For the grit of it.

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Shaking heartbeats vibrate my ribcage

the purple mountains watch this mortal struggle

The cantaloupe alpenglow settles the magic hour debate

30 feet above me, he hangs casually in his harness, smiling down

“Come bring me that pail of water Jill”, he urges my insides to smile

keep climbing

keep grunting

To hell with my ego

I’m starving, and this humble pie satiates my deep- belly pride

Why do I do this?

Did I yell that through the canyon?

Briefly panning out

The soundtrack to my jagged upward haul is laced with expletives from

some deep, guttural wolf inside of my throat.

This moment

How it squeezes my toes

How my head space breathes bigger to make room for mind maneuvers

How my loose braid catches in this belay device

A sharp knife cuts me free from a sure-scalping

Adrenaline fuels this rappel

Crack a celebratory beer on the dusty ground. My chalky fingernails barely able to grip the tab

The cold rush of bubbles remind me that this is being present

I watch my eyes in the truck mirror on the drive home

my bruised and battered hands surf the night thermals

Living on the razors edge

That was fun

“Wanna do it again tomorrow?”

“You are not your poem”, and other constant evolutions.

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My new teachers ask me to leap in my writing. Ask that my words allow composting and cultivation.

I am living in my fingers lately.

They type. They drive these new streets. They cook dinners and they pour coffees and they pick wildflowers. They shake and wipe new tears

they stroke his soft dark hair.

Yet there are ponderosa butterscotch pines

this giant unicorn of a fucking bathtub

new poetry books to ingest

and a kitchen to step heavily into

lavender, sage, mint and yarrow around each street corner

what if I lose?

What if I gain?

Both terrify my throat and leave a strange anxiety

lingers like dog shit

has the similar pleasantry in handling

“Accept Loss Forever”.

I am here in New Mexico

My skin is tightening and browning

my feet are happier

My nails continue to grow strong without the interference of my anxious chipped teeth

music plays

insence burns

the bath bubbles

The canyon rocks beg to be climbed by

shaky limbs and jagged breaths

tepid little boat of mine sways in this dark desert magic.

 

Bill Murray-ed

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The constant ache to write a something so worthwhile, speeding toward greatness, feels like a dull pressure in my heart and it invites a haze over my daily comings -and -goings.

It feels like my  hubble contacts rubbing on my rounded blue and blind irises wrongly.

I’m sick of thinking about thinking.

My nightmares revolve around my teeth lately and how I once read that if you dream of teeth falling out it meant that your fears are chasing you and you are hiding from them in a way that makes them stronger. 

But what if I hit them so hard snowboarding or lived without health insurance through those years of rocks and tents and backpacks and starry nights and sweat-covered hikes that my body will eventually pack her bags and walk out, without a glance backward at the young vibrant hopes she left behind.

These fears of mine follow me from state to state. I find them in a dust-filled bin of gear or the Sorel shoebox filled with old journals and ski pass employee id tags and photos and old letters from the past fifteen years. 

Then I think of the weird lizard people and of not giving a real ingestion of any of it. I think of the lunatic hearts I admire and of the real bonobos out there who never understand it.  I think of Hunter Thompson and my mind calms back to the essence of what it means to do something. Of liking yourself, and doing something of passion…of knowing everything is going to work out. Even if it does not. And it might not. But it will move you forward. 

I remember that my mind thinks like a writer, without force, pretension, or proverbial action of my own. 

It visualizes the stories and fills in narratives of the hues. The memories drift in and out the my present like an interstellar dimension where linear time loses its edges.  What is left is a circle of questions and lazy and big thoughts all living in unbalanced equality.

Being alive is a beautiful mindfuckery.

Maybe detesting and denying mental mediocrity is a man-made water pressure hose.

Turn it off. Be yourself.

on doing

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Intention and foundations. I want to build my strength in steps and to fall asleep at night knowing I tried my best and gave it all in goodness

I want you to feel how special you are

How you make my heart lighter and safer and how I feel refreshed each time we connect

Each hug and squeeze and understanding look

The path of life is winding and full of ways we can become distracted, tired, despondent.

I am going fill this world with my truth, not the blurry intentions that fill my clouded head

I want live to live in my feet

And I want them facing yours forever

on the golden dust

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We are staring into the dark and pooled orbs of every multiverse in the center of our irises. The magnetic pull of all the questions in all of these layers.

Where will we go? What do we do with our days? Can we make it?

and so,

We clasp our palms together and exhale with raised eyebrows full of hope.

I think that hope is as okay a virtue as any to cling to.

A rising tide lifts all boats, I am told.

The ripples of feet firmly resolute in their desires can span through many souls.We steadfastly hook to the horizon. Change always come in waves.

Maybe there is a golden dust speck that has risen from all the bridges that we have walked across and set on fire? The ashes and flames and red-hot specks become the particles to build a strength that will last. “The only way out is through”, he says.

How can anyone understand the fathoms of being human?Are we aliens, visiting ourselves in dreams and nostalgic inklings to stir up some dusty path to for our feet to follow?

There’s no question to ask that doesn’t feel big these days, and I am opening my eyes to braver horizons.

 

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She said that we should be mindful of words that tumble fast from our mouths.  The questions we ask. The wishes we beg to be granted. The needs we cry out to be met.

She says to be fully ready, because once we put our desires out into the energy force, our intentions are heard. So they better be damn solid.

She smudges us with palo santo and drops oils on our palms, inviting us to believe in healing.

Gratitude for the ways in which our manifested questions show up as if to say, well, here I am, are you brave enough?.