I can wait.

Words for feeling lost…found via Bryonie Wise.

“I exist as I am, that is enough,
If no other in the world be aware I sit content,
And if each and all be aware I sit content.
One world is aware, and by the far the largest to me, and that is myself,
And whether I come to my own today or in ten thousand or ten million years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness, I can wait.”

~ Walt Whitman

the sweetest november

I bless every heartache. Every bruise. Every time he didn’t call. Every time that I didn’t know what was missing. These are the lessons that lead me to you.

And you are the answer to every question my heart has ever asked.

Rapture
by Galway Kinnell

I can feel she has got out of bed.
That means it is seven a.m.
I have been lying with eyes shut,
thinking, or possibly dreaming,
of how she might look if, at breakfast,
I spoke about the hidden place in her
which, to me, is like a soprano’s tremolo,
and right then, over toast and bramble jelly,
if such things are possible, she came.
I imagine she would show it while trying to conceal it.
I imagine her hair would fall about her face
and she would become apparently downcast,
as she does at a concert when she is moved.
The hypnopompic play passes, and I open my eyes
and there she is, next to the bed,
bending to a low drawer, picking over
various small smooth black, white,
and pink items of underwear. She bends
so low her back runs parallel to the earth,
but there is no sway in it, there is little burden, the day has hardly begun.
The two mounds of muscles for walking, leaping, lovemaking,
lift toward the east—what can I say?
Simile is useless; there is nothing like them on earth.
Her breasts fall full; the nipples
are deep pink in the glare shining up through the iron bars
of the gate under the earth where those who could not love
press, wanting to be born again.
I reach out and take her wrist
and she falls back into bed and at once starts unbuttoning my pajamas.
Later, when I open my eyes, there she is again,
rummaging in the same low drawer.
The clock shows eight. Hmmm.
With huge, silent effort of great,
mounded muscles the earth has been turning.
She takes a piece of silken cloth
from the drawer and stands up. Under the falls
of hair her face has become quiet and downcast,
as if she will be, all day among strangers,
looking down inside herself at our rapture.

in the absence of sleep


“No two skins with the same texture, and never the same light, temperature, shadows, never the same gesture; for a lover, when he is aroused by true love, can run the gamut of centuries of love lore. What a range, what changes of age, what variations of maturity and innocence, perversity and art…”

– From Delta of Venus by Anais Nin – who I’m just now discovering; devouring.


-Isobel Thrilling

Bleary eyed
and sleepy still
I unwrapped you
of the morning
like careful fruit
with forbidden flesh
made sweeter by the scorning

My hands still shaky
from kisses sweet
and the dark hours
of night’s embrace
I checked to see
if fastened vines
my heart had left
in silv’ry trace

While you slept
I looked inside your chest
to see what was there
was growing
I saw my heart
with quiet eyes
was gently sewing (x2)

-Jewel

You are the trip I did not take, you are the pearls I could not buy,
you are my blue Italian lake, you are my piece of foreign sky.

You are my Honolulu moon, you are the book I did not write,
you are my heart’s unuttered tune, you are a candle in my night.

– from “To My Child” by Anne Campbell

wait, for now.

Wait, for now.
Distrust everything, if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven’t they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. And the desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.
Don’t go too early.
You’re tired. But everyone’s tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a while and listen.
Music of hair,
Music of pain,
music of looms weaving all our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear,
the flute of your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

by Galway Kinnell.

I read somewhere once that this poem was inspired by one of Kinnell’s students who was contemplating suicide. There are certain poems and words that I always go back to, that I have imprinted in my mind. This poem does so much for me.

“The need for new love is faithfulness to the old.” Beautiful. It makes me think of losing a long time love – a spouse, a partner of many years – and having the courage to love again. Nothing that I can personally relate to, but I think of my lovely 87 year-old grandmother, whose first husband passed away when I was only 6 years old. She began dating in her sixties (can you imagine!) and met a wonderful man she’s been with for at least fifteen years now. While we know it’s never the same, it’s comforting to see that love is always possible, no matter what.

“Trust the hours.” Together, three favorite words.

meditation Monday: trust your gut


by Shel Silverstein

“My ego often seeks validation for what my soul already knows.” (unknown)

I’ve always been an advice-asker. I don’t think I realized until very, very recently that I actually need to cut the shit. Relying on the advice/approval/counsel of other people, even those very close to me, needs to stop. It can be about anything and everything. A tattoo, an apartment, plans for the day, what to wear, and often for this single lady – who to date, who not to date, when to text or call him, when not to text or call him, what to say, how to “say it and how to play it.” I’m finding myself paralyzed and stuck. I don’t trust my own opinion. I’m needy, uncertain. And constantly waffling back and forth. Not a good place to be. Deep down somewhere in there, I already know the answer. I know the actions to take. I have gut feelings about everything that matters. People toss around phrases like “trust your gut all the time,” but there is something to it. I need to learn it better.

Ultimately…I need to practice listening to my own inner guidance system. Often when we tune out the voices and opinions of others, we can dial up the volume of our own ~ing, as Gabrielle Bernstein, my teacher would say. And so I leave you with her wisdom, which I started my day with…and ending with this post.

an ode to heartache

What a shame, I’ve become such a fragile and broken thing
I poured myself to you and you thoughtlessly spilled
I have no respite, no recourse
The worst has happened, I’ll mend from here.

I’m a violent sensual sensitive girl.

They say that anything can be replaced
Find another girl to pass the days
She’s beautiful, she has your face
There is nothing time cannot erase…

(As Tall as Lions)

Pseudo-love.
If a person has not reached the level where she has a sense of I-ness rooted in the productive unfolding of her own powers, she tends to idolize the loved person. She is alienated from her own powers and projects them into the loved person.

The bearer of all love, all light, all bliss.

In this process she deprives herself of all sense of strength, loses herself in the loved one instead of finding herself. Since no person can live up to the expectations of her idolatrous worshiper, disappointment is bound to occur.

(From Girl in Need of a Tourniquet by Merri Lisa Johnson)

Yes, I’ll get over it eventually.
Maybe even soon.
But that doesn’t make it hurt any less right now.