What is my name, when no one is around?
What is my name, when my babes are sleeping sound?
What is my name, when the washing is done?
What is my name, when I’m no longer your sun?
What is my name, when you call out in your sleep?
What is my name, when you’re in too deep?
What is my name, when you find another?
Will you ever stop calling me, Mother?
She felt as if she needed to pace.
Pace around the large square patch of shaded grass that she called her front yard.
She needed to walk heel to toe barefoot and feel the sea breeze wafting onto her skin.
She wanted it to blow away the old tapes in her head: fill them with salt until they could no longer wind but instead rust and fall.
She wanted the pacing to steady her heartbeat but not as much as she wanted it to fix something.
That something was too big and perhaps the problem was that she’d been pacing far too long.
She needed to run.
She needed to run so fast that the fear in her shadow would be lost in her tracks, kicked up in the dust.
She needed to run so fast that the goal couldn’t escape her or be at the edge of her fingertips.
It needed to be in her hand.
She needed to hold its tangible proof of her worthy existence.
She stopped pacing.
Looking out toward an ocean that made the world seem far too big for someone so small.
Yet it whispered on white wash, that in fact the world was too small for someone who wants to be so big.
There have been moments in my life where writing has been as simple as breathing. An inhalation of a spontaneous idea has exhaled through my pencil and onto paper in the form of words. It is those moments, while often far and few between, which propel me forward. When the darkness befalls, dressed in fear, taunting me that skill, talent or even perseverance are all just make believe and that I’ve no right to move or be moved by the power of the written word; I breathe. I breathe in the memories of a poem I wrote that hangs on my mothers’ wall or a simple sample of words that captured a friends feelings and I remember that perhaps there is no skill or talent, but there is absolutely perseverance.
Some days, the act of breathing alone is conjured purely by perseverance.
She walked through halls of paintings leaning against walls. The casualty of their placement gave her permission to run her fingers along the canvas, feel the lumps of paint, the strokes of another person’s vision. Pausing to circle images with her fingertips and stare into the eyes of the muse, she relaxed her shoulders and thought perhaps she too should try leaning against the wall, rather than hanging herself.
I wish I could bottle this feeling of calm; a peaceful escape from the pattern. Shrink me down and let me lay against the curved walls like a genie in a lamp.Tears well in waiting: for it to be over, for the haze to spread and the melancholy to rise. Let me lay against the curved walls of this calm, I will not take up space but rather be taken up; nestled in silence and awe at the feeling of your blissful, untainted existence that flows through my core.
She wasn’t sure where to start: she wasn’t sure she’d ever finished. She met herself in the middle, turned herself around three times, cracked her fingers and sharpened her pencil. A new chapter would be her commencement.
She was then and always would be, continued.
She whistled to the world but it never echoed back.
The sounds of her surrounds fell silent, stealing her call.
She paused: checking for signals, sounds, vibrations.
The dust of hush allowed her just enough silence to hear herself.
She cupped her ears.
The thunder of her thoughts rolled deep into her belly.
She would never be alone, if she could hear herself think.