Returning to Me

I come and go with my musings and moments of inspiration. I casually wander around in both the mundane and versatile details of the life I breath; along dingy city streets or any countryside densly popoulated with colorful greens and trees. The sight of nomads backpacking, mom-toting babies on their daily walk among quaint homes, bucolic churches or plush green feilds converging into a blue sky—they always pull me.

When it comes to my fine art, I am equally committed and inconsistent on any given day. I am bound to urgent napkin notes and envelope poetry…though less scatter brained, as I can now thought broadcast into the memo of a smart phone. Except it’s been too many days since I have stilled myself in a space and moment to capture and memorialize any part of this life. It’s not easy being me.

I carry this brain and this heart and these hands and on more than once or twice a day, these feelers and seers nudge me to take note of, hold remembrance too, take pause and immortalize the givings and misgivings of the day. And these past few weeks, I’ve had plenty. I continue to walk in lessons and impending victories. At times I am self aware enough to dialogue through the doubts and the discoveries.

But I know one thing for sure, no matter how busy or self occupied, the letters of the alphabet are always calling me. They implore me to shuffle them into mixed media and prose imagery. It is the strongest desire to run free in the expanse of vocabulary that perpetually haunts me. I feel I will implode if I do not give in to the fulfilling of the release. I have to give my words away. They do not belong to me. Time and time again, with the simplest expression, a caption, a thought given away via any frequency…this is confirmed for me. There is someone always in the point of need and I meet them with a soliloquy.

Which leads me always to one sound conviction: He gives me words to fill-full His thin-skinned vessels and all the beautiful, bruised and beloved ones. I am among the humans He uses to scribe messages of light and love and beauty. Of hope and inspiration, and fragility. He funnels and filters and flows through me. What a heavy blessing to bear; truly a brilliant burden, to blend faith with sentiment to bind beings and their belongings with brave words in the brevity of any moment. And I wouldn’t pass it over ever. I know, I am called to lay all the breathtaking, beauty and benevolence down. I am called to write.

erm…It is Well

The Women Before Me and Our Demons

Saint or sinner
Saints or sinners
Pick your poison
Offer a prayer
How many of them
went to Heaven for me...

I think I thought to think...that I only, was the one adulteress in the lineage of my feminality, only to discover a distinct pathology of self-righteous infidelity. 
I sat to think and thought that only I, had committed the heaviest of sins and deviated from a heritage of holy sanctuary, to give away a sacred body to another mortal whom did not belong to me. Only to discover over hard drinks and sweet tea, that the wiles of me were innate, a passive transgression from the women who bled heavy long before me. 

Not that I want to give away the secrets buried with the dead or the secrets under the bed of the alive, but these demons were at the bedside of my creation, breathing heavy for me, long before I closed eyes, to form lips for a first kiss. But I would be remiss if I did not mention, I have a notice for every demon that would come to demean us, me. 

Notice to proceed--away from every corridor around my feet, every breath of air near to me. Flee! From my time. From the corners of my womb's memory and the daughter who came from within me. An eviction notice I give, to that which comes to perpetuate a promiscuous misery. To stir the extravagance of messy sheets and fantasies later draped in melancholy, for love is never birthed from unrequited affinity. 

All that to say, it is true, we repeat histories and destinies; nothing is new under the sun or the soft fall of rain. The curses are not far behind the generations to come; we owe the liberty and beauty of transparency to every daughter coming into her self-reality. The women before me, how many of them went to heaven for me? Them, seated up there in the right hand, interceding for me. Love is ahead. 

erm...It is Well

Love Lingers

Therefore, do not fight in your within
wrestling to unlearn the art of it;  
un-loving won't work 

Love lingers therefore, 
to bridge our disconnects, 
to keep us gentle in the rough
and merciful in the mess of things 

Accept that Love lingers
to remind us of our long forgotten selves
when we were just babes in the belly of life
long before we learned to suckle words
and starve feelings 

We were always born of a love undefiled
with a passionate purpose

Love lingers to keep us human 

erm...It is Well