It Was Only a Matter of Time

It was only a matter of time. Twenty-eight days, to be more specific. Only a matter of 28 days before I’d stand up against the wall I’ve come to know so well. This wall is pock-marked, like skin that healed unevenly after years of acne. Or scarred, with years of stories painted in layers across its surface, chipping here, thicker there. It’s a wall that can support the entire weight of me, weight that feels like it will fall from between my legs like an unnamed planet, leaving a trail of blood across the sky of my white thighs. This is the rhythm of the body.

It was only a matter of time before I began to question everything again. My purpose. My karma. The kind of thing I talk out loud to myself about as I trudge up the hill carrying a bag of groceries, shifting the weight from one hand to the other as the straps cut lines across my palms. Questions like these have no answers; they are circular in nature and always close in on themselves, like moons. I put away the organic cream, the unscented dish soap, the bags of rice. I fold the bag and toss it to the closet floor. This is the rhythm of the lunar month.

It was only a matter of time before the noise of the world started sounding like wind on the other side of old windows, not rattling so much as whooshing, soothing as an ultrasound seeking a heartbeat. I curl into the womb of her arms and count my breaths, blankets pulled up close under my chin. I see why home can be called a crib; I am a tiny unborn body floating in darkness. If it weren’t for the sky I can hear outside, I would tell you this bed was made of ocean. This is the rhythm of knowing when to pull up the shades and when to leave them down.

It was only a matter of time before something in me snapped awake again and I cried out to some presence that may or may not exist. Show me the way! Knowing, always, that there’s more than meets the eye, more than the mind can conjure and that the body, this belly, this blood is a barometer of time and what it’s time for. I still don’t know, but as sure as I want to close my ears and eyes I will listen on the inside for the sound of that knowing. This is the dark rhythm of something like faith, though language feels thin today, and worn.

It was only a matter of time before I remembered the starlings in the plaza at dusk and how happy they made me feel. How much I belonged there in a country where my body had no explanation but youth and skin. I listened then, as the sky changed to indigo, and I could not tell where the percussion of leaves changed to the rioting of so many birds. That was long before babies grew inside of me, long before my name changed and changed again full circle like the belly and the moon, long before the longing that would lead me here. This is the rhythm of deliverance.

It was only a matter of time before I rebelled against wanting what I didn’t have and was never meant to be mine. Why am I here? To open again and again. To empty again and again. To realign the walls I stand against with new fabrics, dried blood-red stone walls that fortify the insides of me you’ll never see. This is my own wind howling in the deserted spaces. My own song of hollow canyons filled with air you can’t hold in your hands. My voice that came screaming out after the panic in the silent movie of a recent dream. This is the rhythm of the eyelids, the hidden places.

I come here tonight to honor this cycle rather than resisting and fighting it. To breathe sound into rage that has no source and sadness that has no outlet. Let it not pool but rush and gush forth unobstructed, like words when you open the valve and so many centuries come competing for airtime. Let them all speak at once. Let them take turns. Let a thousand languages overwhelm your senses until you rock yourself to sleep and dream of hands holding the fullness of you until you’re ready, again, to carry your own.

Walking Thoughts: Why Bother Writing?

While Pearl was at her piano lesson, I went for a walk on the country roads around her teacher’s house. I’d been holed up all day against a wild wind, and although the temperature has swung a full fifty degrees since this time last week, it felt good to move my body.

After five minutes or so on Station Road, I turned onto a small side street with a view of the mountains that are really more like hills. The sun was getting low in the sky and my ears burned with cold. It was right about then that I heard it. The tinny voice of doubt. The swimming thoughts, so familiar, old and worn:

There are so many voices. What do I have to add? Why bother writing? 

If you look very closely and the light is just so, you can see the faintest blush of red in the treetops this time of year. It’s not even a blush yet, more like a tease. Easy to miss, and easy to doubt what you think you just saw: Color. As I walked, bare hands stuffed in coat pockets along with my wallet, keys, and phone, these lines came to me:

Oh, just love your restless heart. Love it the way the wind whips the craggy apple tree and the solemn birch. Love it like the light lowers before snapping you back to attention.

And it was then that I said hi to God.

(Some folks will stop reading now at the mention of God. That’s ok; it’s none of my business what “God” evokes for you. If it smacks of white patriarchy, I can assure you that’s not it for me. I could not describe God if you asked me to. All I know is that in that moment on my walk, I realized God and I have not been hanging out as much lately, and that’s exactly what I said. Out loud.)

“Hi, God. It’s me. We need to get together more often. Want to walk together?”

In the next part of the walk, a new series of thoughts came rolling in like waves. I looked at the still-bare trees, the now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t hint of spring color, and got super existential all of a sudden. (Sometimes talking to God gets me way down in the microcosms, but today was the opposite.)

The sky I was looking up at, the ground where each footfall landed — none of this will be here forever. The word “forever” echoing into infinitude, impossible to grasp.

I took out my phone and sent myself a text.
Whirlpools in a vast ocean. The radical suggestion of not having to hurry. The suggestion of loneliness. A pull to stillness and movement and the paradox of these together. And the question of “why bother” now subsumed by wind, the kind that swallows even silence whole, like prey.

Earlier in the day, I had written a poem after Wind, Water, Stone by Octavio Paz:

WIND, SKY, SILENCE

Wind swallows silence,
sky lashes wind,
silence scolds the sky.
Wind, sky, silence.

Sky conspires with silence,
silence is a bowl of wind,
wind shapeshifts to sky.
Silence, sky, wind.

Sky keeps its distance,
wind moves carelessly,
sharp silence, deep slice.
Sky, wind, silence.

These refuse to be contained:
always becoming each other
and changing form.
Wind, silence, sky.

There really is nothing to figure out. In fact, as a phrase, “figure out” is a dicey one-two punch guaranteed to tumble me deeper into tiny whirlpools of even smaller thoughts. I could stir them with a stick from the woods all day long and discover nothing; all the really exciting stuff is happening out in the open waters where I live and love and work every day.

I’ve always gone through cycles with my writing, as well as with just about everything else in my life. I imagine we all do, in our own ways.

Clarity feels fantastic. It feels like power and momentum. Depression is a weighted blanket that makes it hard to get out of bed in the morning. The smell of thawing earth and warm rain makes my whole body want to run, like a dog in an open field. I favor periods when I’m focused, when ideas are flowing, and when I feel confident and loved. I’m still learning how to relax into and during times of relative quiet and calm. It’s easy to get addicted to emergencies or reliant on periods of prolific, if inexplicable, creative urges.

Here’s the thing: The internal landscape changes. The external landscape changes. The writing is sometimes an anchor, other times a buoy. It’s both a constant variable in my days and an ever-changing one. Kind of like God. Like love.

As a kid, one of my favorite books was Amos & Boris by William Steig. Amos is a mouse and Boris is a whale. They become the best of friends during an ocean crossing. They experience times both peaceful perilous. In the end, each saves the other’s life, and though one must live on land and the other at sea, they remain dear friends for all time. It is truly a love story.

What stays? Why bother writing?

Our time here is so short. Your voice — that singular vehicle for the stories only you can share and the thoughts only you can reveal — ripples like so many waves in this vast impermanent ocean of love.

I am sometimes Amos and sometimes Boris. Boat and water. God and walker. Silence and wind. Ocean and ground. When I’m starting to get swirled into questions about purpose and meaning, it’s usually a good time to just walk. To just talk to God. To not know. To settle into that, letting the questions rest and the answers come and go as easily as the wind, the light around the bend.