We arrive sleepy and bent - a crumpled wad of desire for something new. These wet hot streets - a vistors reckoning - grief. But that is what you carried here my dear - packed neatly in your bags - folded, creased, alert. I tried to find the thing that made London her own. But, belonging to everyone and spread so densely through street upon alley upon court with flesh, she's a union of nations at once - scurrying about in search. The homeless prefer, it seems, to sleep in broad daylight beside a riot of words. There are no shoes, a tired beard, an altar of water bottles left at his feet. I thought about quitting marriage when I couldn't summon joy - as if London should ring that old bell back into awakening. But it was dinner time again - and every other door an open mouth for feeding. So we dine so we sleep so we rise once more and when you say good-bye i love you at last.
people are dying - and also there is cancer like a maniac bully breaking our hearts. i wanted to feel something - one time for itself - without another something to hold it up against or toward. but what's so is the tragic beauty of everything we love - dissolving in front of us as we become.
finally, i got so tired of words - and the way they were being used to destroy what we love and who we love and even how - that i quit them. just stopped writing. like the fury of a hundred years could be contained instead in prayer. but when the answers didn't line up and my own silence started to feel more like cowardice - i quit that too. had a run with rage. and ignorance. i found it is terrible to hate, even the haters. so I'm picking up the words again - like so many wild flower seeds - and i am throwing them into the wind. into the abominable hatred - even as it tries to oppress - i am throwing the words and the seeds and the light back in the face of the darkness and i am hoping that in the midst of all this dirt and manure - our wild flowers will grow. And they will take over all this shameful, barren bullshit with their outrageous color.
i jumped off the bridge last night in my heart and now some twelve hours later i still haven't hit the bottom - the immeasurable depth of being, too terrific to slam up against with something so simple as flesh. so i wait. think about the crawling out - the accent - the way back up to where things are indeed okay even inside the darkness. even with it. the frailty of being human - a hoax. i know the clouds are grey for a reason - that there will be more rain and disaster. but also i know, from it will come new growth and this is where i rest against the walls of a weary heart - pull myself back out and up - where i can dare again for joy.
when they forgave me - for words i had not spoken - i hurried to use my voice again, for forgiveness's sake itself. before i changed for the better, i broke things. a stampede through time unaware of the china - a hurricane of doubt in a trusting heart - oblivion on top of indifference - and the tiny riot of fear. people said come back - there is room here - in-between the pictures you left, are all these blank pages upon which to show you care.
i am thinking about dads today and how my own died way to young - and how so much of who i have become was because of this man - that, in some ways, i barely knew. but i knew him. i know your dad died early too, and yours. and how hard it is for all of us to look at our boys, our sons, our nephews and think - they will never get to meet him, or - god, my dad would love you. i am proud. to have had a dad. to have, through marriage and love helped make one. to understand the delicate fabric that holds our men together - that shapes our boys. I feel dangerously too close sometimes - to the essence of things - how i catch a glimpse of my child walking passed in a man's body. he carry's my father's death with him, you know and lends him another life.
i don't know how i became a stranger here - walking the worn aisles of the market - recognizing no one. i found myself - where mount tam meets the pacific - at a point in life up until which i'd only ever tried to lose. it was something. being found - instead of found out - at the beach in a quiet town with a loud heart. i almost raised my hand as a visitor - at the same meeting that had saved me - when i had nothing to inherit but undeserved grace. instead i took a token - a marker of sorts - to remind me that i belong here with the wind and the salt and the sea where being recognized is trumped by being known. you can feel home in your bones, like marrow carrying breath to the heart.