what on earth

what on earth is going on
to make this feeling surface again
pushed it back for so long
but to the surface it madly spins
so much strength to carry on like this
the flood gates are opening within
so numb nothing hurts
even where the flame turns blue
the courage to hold your heart outside
everyone can see all the scars
the relief of honesty
the walls tumbling tumbling
falling
crashing
relief
what on earth is going on
to see all these images again
learning how to feel
how to exhale the pain
how to embrace the joy
how the heart can be opened to capture everything at once
not running away but standing still
there’s more courage in healing
and feeling for once
have it all piercing the soul
what on earth is going on
just emotions
take a breath and dive in

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Under Pressure

Sitting here… breathing through a straw,

feeling my lungs lurch for air, feeling my mind scream for space, feeling my heart beg to be seen.

All at once.

Never in an even path but always forward, then not, then forward, then not.

The sign reads, “no train horn”.

So there I stand, listening to the tracks shake in the distance, listening to the bird call out from the tree… listening.

My eyes closed, my head back, my mind shaking off the sting once again.

Not today.

It’s not on my mind today.

I can hear it… in the distance, it will be here soon.

I sit down in the cool autumn grass, the last of the wild flowers stretching their way to the distant sun, but still…

my breath, it doesn’t come,

my lungs, they still ache,

my mind, it still spins,

my heart, it still begs.

The quiet interrupted by the shaking of the tracks, louder, with more force — “no train horn”, I read the sign again.

Steady.

Calm.

I rise.

I slowly take in air to my strained lungs — the shaking of the track makes it easier.

One step forward,

two steps back,

I close my eyes to see it all,

the rushing wind blowing my shirt back from my outstretched arms,

the shaking ground unbalances me as if I were walking on retreating sand,

And then it’s gone…

taking my thoughts with it,

carrying my pressure filled soul further down the tracks while my mind,

calm and still… a rhythmic humming from my core,

remains in tact.

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… pockets filled with stones.

I’m carrying them around,

like stones in my pockets.

Discarding the small ones as I go.

The big ones are so heavy, they don’t easily fall,

they cling to my skin,

to my thoughts,

to my heart.

I pack you all up, in a matter of minutes, whenever I need to go.

You travel so well, weighing me down just enough,

you’ve been my excuse when forward was simply too far to travel.

I’m walking around from memory to memory and dropping these stones along the way.

Hoping no one sees what a pile I have amassed.

Hoping no one sees the holes they’ve worn in my heart.

I sit down at the edge of this cliff, weighted down by my pockets filled with stones.

I can’t stand up.

I can’t jump.

I can’t take another step forward.

I reach into my pocket and grab a handful of you and toss you out of my life.

Throwing stones this way and that with a smile on my face, as I watch them disappear over the ledge.

I turn from the edge and with all my strength I stand and I walk away.

I’m not packing you up, in a matter of minutes, I’m leaving you far behind.

These pockets filled with stones have secured me too long to the bottom of this ocean floor.

I want to believe in me as much as I believe in…

These pockets filled with stones.

I’ve scattered these stones, far away from my thoughts and my heart finally beats.

These pockets filled with stones are smaller and smaller, each day I throw a few as far as I can.

Reminders of the life, beckoning you to live, surrounding you with love all around.

Don’t forget…

that I believe in you.

Don’t forget…

how much I care.

If ever you start to doubt, just read these words and hear my heart,

beating,

filled with pride,

love.

Don’t forget…

that I believe in you.

You are a magical shell, waiting to be found, sitting where the waves break against the shore.

You are a whisper, spreading through the world, shining your light all around.

You are a scream, bouncing off a mountain, spreading through the valleys below.

These pockets filled with stones that try to hold me close,

to scare me to stay in a world of afraid.

I’ve deposited them around, here and there…

emptying these pockets filled with stones.

Freeing my hands to hold on to you and my heart and my soul and my hope.

.

.

Check out all the poetic goodness at The Gooseberry Garden and at dVerse poets!

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This is the story of a girl…

This is the story of a girl,

she cared for you until she couldn’t anymore.

she danced in patent shoes until her feet were worn.

she always waited for your lights to shine through the door.

This is the story of a girl,

she wanted to get your attention but you were busy fixing the world.

This is the story of a girl,

she saved the whole world, but submerged deep inside,

she stayed too long when she should have run,

she listened to you when you thought she wasn’t around.

This is the story of a girl,

she crumbled a little and was scattered on the floor,

she begged and pleaded and cried, “please, no more!”

This is the story of a girl,

she unstuck her feet from the hardened feelings all around,

she stood on the tracks with her fist high in the air,

she jumped on the train and was carried away.

This is the story of a girl,

she broke into pieces at the dawn of each new day,

she forced the air into her closed off lungs,

she pried open the gates of her bordered up heart.

This is the story of a girl,

she moved but she wanted to freeze,

she talked but she wanted to remain silent,

she stayed present but she wanted to slip away.

This is the story of a girl,

she thinks of you when she thinks about hope,

she kept saying hello to a closed shut door.

This is the story of a girl,

she is tired,

she is hoping,

she is floating,

she is continuing.

This is the story of a girl,

she was longing to belong but finally realized she already did.

This is the story of a girl,

she became a basket case but only for a minute.

This is the story of a girl,

she wanted you to believe in her as much as she believes in you.

This is the story of a girl,

she tried to rush the ending but it’s just the beginning.

.

.

Check out Jingle’s Poetry Potluck this week for some wonderful reads, as well as One Stop Poetry, home of One Shot Wednesday!

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That’s what she said…

When I come back in my house after a long walk with my dogs, sometimes they poo… in the house. I say this because I think it’s important. I take them on a walk… they sniff, they pant, they pull, they sniff some more, they do their business, they sniff some more again and then we return to the house. And sometimes, when I least expect it, when I’m tired and in a mood and need to do other things, they decide to poo. Then my plans change. I clean poo and does anyone ever plan to clean poo? I spray the house. I open the windows. I scrub and I stand back to look and I scrub some more and I look again to see if the evidence is gone. Then I ask my kids if they can see anything… can they smell anything… have I removed all traces of the indiscretions of my dog?

I’ve been thinking lately, a lot. About lots of things that seem to be important to me right now, I keep thinking these weren’t quite as important to me last year, maybe they were… clarity wasn’t one of my greatest assets then. I’ve also been thinking about writing this post for a while. I’ve sat down to write these words on so many occasions and then something happens and my thoughts turn into a poem. I really love poetry — the metaphors, the subtle shifts, the undertones. It’s also fairly easy to hide in poetry. You say things and no one really knows where it comes from… that’s the point of poetry, I think anyway. You read it and you interpret it however you need to interpret it at the time — it’s different for each of us.

One of the things I’ve been trying to reach some clarity on is connection. Connection with each other. I’ve never really believed that everything happens for a reason… if I believed that I’d need a very good explanation as to why my dog’s poo in my house five minutes after we get back from a walk. People come into our lives, this too I think often defies the concept of  “everything happens for a reason”. I might go so far as to say we are more likely to attract people into our lives depending on where we are in our own personal evolution.

The people I’ve attracted over the years are a hodgepodge of sorts. In high school and college my close friends always said people enjoyed being around me because I acted the same with everyone, I welcomed people from all the “groups” and I never placed myself into a single category — I went to church but I hung out with the party group, I played sports but cheered on my friends who were cheerleaders, I acted in the theater, I played piano and trumpet and guitar. I sang in the chorus. I baked in contests. I snuck cigarettes. I drank too often. I dressed in toga’s and danced at fraternity party’s. I wrote poetry and read Willa Cather. My whole life has been gray and lovely.

And still, the people in my life are eclectic and beautiful — they are a part of me. I think we keep pieces of the people we have connected to with us, even when they are gone. They live in our hearts, if we’re lucky. Sometimes they live in the back of our mind and creep forward like a warning squeak coming off your brakes. I hope I’m in more hearts than I am the squeaking brakes you hear in your mind.

I’ve been messy. I’ve been apologetic. I’ve been wrong. I’ve been right. I’ve been learning. I’ve been teaching. I’ve been listening. I’ve been screaming. I’ve been messy.

Back to my dogs. Sometimes, when I think nothing else could go wrong and sometimes when I think everything is going right — there they are, just back from a walk, pooing on my floor, changing my plans, pushing me. Making me realize that things sometimes don’t happen the way we plan or want. But sometimes, when we need things to go right, when we can’t take another bend in the path, when every ounce of hope we’ve placed in something comes to fruition… we know our hearts are filled with love. So, here I am, moving forward in a messy eclectic beautiful discombobulated ball of confusion — and that’s a very comfortable fit for me.

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If you could see what I feel.

The lightning in the distance,

the sound of thunder getting closer,

the rain beating on the closed window.

The ocean churning past the breaker,

the waves gently falling on the beach,

the sand sifting my position.

If you could see what I feel,

I’m afraid you’d tell me.

I’m afraid you’d explain it to me,

in words that I understand.

If you could see what I feel,

I’d try to protect you from it,

I’d try to keep it in the distance.

A puzzle lying scattered on the floor,

the pieces strewn in a beautiful mess.

We are never broken.

I was wrong when I said I had missing pieces.

I was wrong when I thought I needed you.

We are never broken.

If you could see what I feel,

I’d cradle you in my arms.

I’d protect you from the hurt.

The clouds trying desperately to cover the orange moon,

the reflection it cast across your face.

The silhouette of your smile on the wet grass below.

The still water below that bridge,

beckoning me to jump.

The silent splashing water covering me as I descend.

Love never falls asleep.

It’ll wait out on the porch until you’re ready.

Roll that stone away from your heart.

Heartache will visit, but it isn’t lasting.

I’ll never let it stay there for long.

I’ll push, you pull.

Please see what I feel.

Please don’t make me say it again.

If you could see what I feel,

you’d open your arms.

If you could see what I feel,

you’d say, “it’s all okay”.

If you could see what I feel,

you’d believe what you say.

If you could see what I feel,

only kindness matters.

If you could see what I feel…

.

.

Offering up a poem for Thursday’s Poets Rally, check them out to read some awesome poems. Also, hopping into Poetry Potluck, you’ll be pleased with the poets over there. And finally, One Shot Wednesday over at One Stop Poetry, some amazing folks indeed.

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… where you gonna go?

I don’t want to talk to you about it.

I’m not your open book.

I’m not waiting for someone to tell me it’s my turn.

I want to move, be normal, how beautiful would that be?

I want to live, today, forgetting about the rest.

I just want to be okay.

Where do you go to escape yourself?

I want to scream, “girls are mean!”

I want to hold you and whisper, “it’ll be okay.”

I want to stand next to you and repeat, “I’m not drowning, there’s no one here to save.”

I want to nudge you, toward the speeding train.

I want to throw my fist in the air…

I just want to be okay.

Where do you go to escape yourself?

“… you’re in my heart”, I tell her…

loudly, so she can always hear me,

often, so she never doubts,

silently, so she never relies on my voice.

I just want to be okay.

Where do you go to escape yourself?

The train is barreling down,

out of control,

filled with all the love that ever broke you apart.

Stay there, never be afraid.

Stand your ground on those tracks and let the hurt fill you up.

I just want to be okay.

Where do you go to escape yourself?

Have you ever been thrown away?

I just want to be okay.

I am fear and I am flight.

I am but when I’m not.

I am hope.

I am holding on.

I am an open book forgotten on the shelf.

I am waiting for you to rifle through my pages.

I just want to be okay.

I dare you to stay there, in the path of the train.

I dare you to stand up and wave your hands.

I dare you to move toward the people who question you.

I dare you to be silent.

Silence rushes over me,

hoping you can hear it.

I just want to be okay.

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A Year In The Life

Counter clockwise

A simple shift….
a crow bar’s wrench
to the left

In the iris of your
dark heart

To make a space,
a sliver….
an opening

To actually see,
touch and feel

The light that
is me. ~~~ Karen Schindler

 

I had a post all ready for the one year anniversary of my blog. It was good too. I wrote it two weeks in advance. I made sure it was exactly what I wanted to say. I checked my links. I made sure everything was okay for me to push that publish button — but I didn’t, I walked away from it.

In reality, walking away from the things I care about is not my best asset. But — I learn, I mess up, I try again. I decided it needed some space to breathe. I decided I needed some space to breathe — I decided that when I thought I was giving out that precious space to breathe, I was actually smothering… like always. So the post I so meticulously wrote two weeks in advance has been shoved in to the “draft” section of this blog, along with 46 other drafts that I’ve been too hesitant to push the publish button on.

In the year since starting this blog, in October of 2009, I’ve gotten the strength (and sometimes temporary insanity) to push the publish button on 142 posts. I’ve trashed one and there is one in the pending column (I didn’t realize there was a pending column)… and those 46 lingering drafts.

It’s been a weird year (this is the part where you all shake your heads vigorously). I learned a lot about myself — some of it I would have liked to stay hidden away. I’ve learned that reaching out can hurt and it can heal. I’ve learned that writing can leave me scared and alone and it can bring me to terms with my own shortcomings. I’ve learned that friendship is a sacred tricky thing. I’ve learned that sometimes “I’m sorry” is not the phrase that should be uttered. I’ve learned that I owe some apologies to people, but I’m searching for the right words, still. I’ve learned that I’m more than a snippet of time — (and I’ve learned that I like to speak parenthetically).

I have lessons yet to learn.

Maybe this year will be the year that the pendulum swings in my favor.

Maybe one of the lessons that I need to learn this year is that the pendulum will swing in whatever general direction I give it a good shove.

A year in the life of Becky is here for all to analyze — open like a book. But, remember, I’m a real person making real (sometimes overwhelming) mistakes and making real (sometimes overpowering) connections and getting my very real heart (sometimes deservedly) broken… and learning that I’m evolving, aren’t you?

Photo from Annie Q. Syed

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