Something about the way I learned to lean backwards
cross-sectional on the sofa
Composed well, but weirdly—
to the core
point of reference,
Laughing and loopy
A bent and staggering mess
holding steady (ish)
enough to scrape by
You’d hold me up now and then,
taught me how to stay
despite my starry criss-crossed gaze,
my lopsided stance.
Our circus show balancing act:
I couldn’t lean there forever
so I think of you as I teach myself
to stay steady yet
For this I am
Our messes are forever misaligned
juxtaposed, mismatched, scattered.
Each day a lone paint splat
ungracefully bland in its seclusion,
necessarily uneven and unique.
When I step back a little, holding my gaze,
I know that beauty,
I feel its worth.
Art, love, life.
Such as it is.
If you only watch one inspirational speech this day or this year, here’s a good bet:
(How can we not love Brene Brown.)
Image: Lorenzo Blangiardi at Flickr
A wise suggestion from Andy Charrington when I explained that I didn’t know where to start with my writing right now:
“Start right where you really want to.”
Okay, I thought, well that’s a scary spot. A pretty strange and scary (though not entirely dark) spot…
It’s the place where I wonder how it would feel to run my fingers over her heavily-inked collar and breast bone.
It’s the chair in the corner of the tropical party that I showed up late to (wearing too much black), then left alone as each couple curled up together.
It’s the way a tendon in my left shoulder twitches sometimes, my body’s signal that I’m overwhelmed with anxiety and overdue for regular yoga and massage.
It’s the thing where I push myself out of the house regularly, mostly alone, often too late. Just yesterday pushing myself to a favourite cafe via slow bus, frozen toes..only to have it be too full.
It’s the way my being became seized with doubt after opening that piece of mail, after reading that particular message.
It’s the way I go out and come home alone, go out and come home alone, go out and come home alone…because I want to.
(But do I?)
I could start in these kinds of dark places—or I could start with the bright spots, of which there are many:
The band last week that made me feel like I was 16 again—sweaty bodies dancing joyously, strange and sometimes heavy music. Real music, real people, bodies dancing heavily in a drunken room.
The Time Traveller’s Wife, a sweet secret santa gift from an internet friend.
The way he concocted a super-special fresh mai tai cocktail the other day, icy cold and a bit bitter, complete with chunks of coconut, just for me. I was wearing a rainbow lei which was borrowed from Regretta the unicorn pinata.
It’s the way she bought me a coffee from the little outdoor sidewalk window, even though I barely knew her and had also kept her waiting for too long.
It’s the way we do Dollar Cinema, sitting up front and spiking our Pepsi (Nightcrawler, Boyhood).
It’s the way we served Sunday dinner messily last night, then laughed hard about how imperfect it was. Then we played guess the animal.
It’s being invited to work out with a friend and discovering that you actually like the gym that you’re in.
It’s listening to a best friend’s adventure stories on the other end of the phone.
It’s having a Sunday feel like a Sunday is supposed to feel.