Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Little Solider

What have I sacrificed, to put emotion into writing, meaning into form, my state into image and tangible moment? Would it have been better to leave well enough alone, or to have buried such outpourings in the folds of living, not to be seen? Most likely not, as the latter could be the end of me; pent up and wondering, brimming with passing feelings, unable to breathe or move for my constriction. So then, I face an almost interminable problem: that of being ashamed to be so needing in expression, while treading the tenuous balance between longing for acceptance of personal treasures and recognizing their seemingly insurmountable limitations.

Bravery, be with me; courage in a female heart, walking upright, clad in shining silver and paper white gauze. Humility, find safe refuge in my heart, for I am nothing without you, only a mass of unspeakable torments, fumbling without reason, hurting without growth, spending my talent as water spilled on concrete slabs.

Little solider, who ran away from the protection of her regiment, ill-equipped for the danger she encountered, her own cries of fear drowning out what helpful orders could have reached her. Now limps back to position, the armor provided her dinged and broken, blackened and missing the little touches of metallurgic beauty. It’ll be alright now, as you learn to relinquish the weapons you fashioned in frightened haste, learn to once again steer your horse into formation, straighten your back in assurance, and ride on in gallant company. Speak what words you discovered in stranger countries, and weave the ribbons of your experiencing into the cracks and fragments of your armor. Life will be painted in awkward colors, after all, until we learn, until we out grow our own ideas, and live simply. Leave fear in tattered phrases by the wayside, leave anger desperation and torment in muddied colors on a passing milestone. It was all meant for your development, it was yours; see yourself there finally, and move on.

Painting by myself

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Prayer for Healing

Deep in my heart there lives a little hollow. The shape no larger than what can easily be hidden in circumstance. Like a little drift away, like a non-belonging, which I shepherd tenderly about from day to day. A seed of sadness, the brand of some forgotten sin, and in its hidden lumpiness the guilty suspicion that I have no right to exist. Though all about is peace and stillness, like this little farm with its fresh covering of snow, I bleed from this secret hollow, in drops down a murky drain.

But with each new cycle the dross is cleared away, and like tender skin revealed, I once again stand shivering and pink, raw, sore and unfamiliar to my surroundings. Remembering art this time, catching the end of lengthy sun-downs, and slowly igniting love and expression.

Wondering at how poignantly the little hollow wants for real femininity. Always chasing it or denying the fabled specter in turn, feeling more Valkyrie than missus; tempestuous, recklessly valiant, sacrificing. A fighter, indelicate. A wanderer, reclusive. Ablaze with my own passions, though longing to serve in utter surrender, to burn away ego in the fire of the front lines. Gladly I’d give my being for my cause, if only life could be as simple. But the more difficult battle is the one which preserves the fighter, heals her as she laughingly removes that which hinders her salvation, and sends her onwards whole. Preserved, rejuvenated, bettered, filled, complete, alive, free.

Would that I will freely join this fight, and in walking away from the pain I pin myself down to, find joy.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Mid-Winter

The Sun and Moon at equal sight across the valley deep in Winter. Leveling off, the balance about to be shifted; tentative. Bubbling through cloud cover, purpled by its descent, a Sun diminished by the day and visible now for it’s brightness. Galantly singing in tones too soft for day lit hours, a face beneath the veil of sinking afternoon rises as the Moon, defiant, cool and unrelenting.

Back home, nurturing a penchant for empty journals, clean notebooks, sketchbooks with hard stylized covers, packages of legal pads yellow with blue lines. As if with each new purchase, a new novel of being would erupt upon the blank pages, writing itself in clear, scattery italics, telling me in plain English the inner workings of a favorite heroine, myself. She’s like a willow-warrior, reckless and ephemeral. She’s tired, sad, beautiful, and alive, like rain on Spring mornings, like a break in Winter weather. Dodging all boulders, save those she sights with tightened eyes and swallows with the frail fluidity of her being. Like water through a rocky stream, which in it’s passing beautifies the obsticles, like a stargazer upon the lip of darkening clouds, she occupies the last impossible middle between hope and despair. Her speeches come in lengthy phrases; tumbling with long words over hills of changing seasons, circumventing lips only parted enough to let a whisper through, she’ll let a reverie pass for insight before turning to her God in all the awe she can muster, and be humbled once more to silence.

Mid-way; Winter about to turn, and a weakened heroine about to choose a new beginning. Under growing Light, myself, the season awaits the change.

Painting by myself