Shed, hold, receive, creation

This is a five-day poem. Read one part each day for four days. Don't think about it, worry about it, or try to glean or learn anything at all. Poetry is joy and joy is enough. Let your body swim with the space and language like float-paddling in warm still water with friends at sunset. On the fifth day– and only if you want to learn something new about yourself– re-read the whole thing. At that point, you're welcome to unlearn something. Unlearning involves allowing your body to let go of something stale that it's just itching to let go of. Our brains– God love 'em– tend to get in the way of unlearning. When learning really cool new things about ourselves, unlearning is typically present. And often hidden. Weird and cool. Or weird and fire, kiddos, if you prefer.

Also, quick thank you shout out to my friend and childhood imaginary friend come to life, Natalie, who reminded me of important things today– by insisting that her latest lovely piece on Substack called Get Out the Map: A Decoder Ring for the Road We're Actually On– be printed out and then read on paper, circled, messed-with. And she asked readers to return and comment once they'd done that. In about one paragraph, she reminded me that it's ok to be the boss of your own space, ok to ask for what you want to be yourself, ok to say out loud a thing that's been bothering you, ok to not follow directions (because my printer broke and my new one is still in the box and the ink is in another box and ugh, new printer set-up, not today, so no printing for me), and also that it's highly likely that people will learn whatever the hell they need to learn and do what they need to do with whatever you offer, regardless of what we say, or do, or write. Humbling. And so freeing. Natalie's like a bowl of summer-ripe berries– so much goodness/nutritional bang for your buck in a package so vibrant and adorable that part of you just wants to squeeze her and make a big mess. But I digress...

Shed, hold, receive, creation

A poem of the living

1. Shed

Shedding– some say letting go– is the hardest action for me:
so much hanging on, kicking, and screaming here.
Or thinking I've let go and then realizing– oh shit, I haven't.
Like a dream inside a dream. Still, it's made me believe
in the inherent dignity of the living,
especially in our worst moments.

We shed:
expectations
life stations
notions and nations
worry about inflation

We shed:
politics
blood
genocide
silence

We shed:
I should–
both should
and I

We shed:
body
form
constraint
all desire to be martyr
or saint

We shed:
ideology
supremacy
distraction
disconnected violence
chronic way-too-seriousness
tension
cruel eyes and guys
datacenters and AI

We shed:
selves
others
billionaires' lies
common sense when it makes no sense for those present
believing that logic, science, religion, tech, rules, and behaving– alone– could possibly save all of us
believing that we're alone, abandoned, and
that we don't belong.

shedding:
it feels like dog fur
reaching for the floor
and sitting in your car
across the street
from your ex's wedding

All this we do, just to listen better
to hear better and more
than we could before
to love deeper, and explore.
Which, we don't always achieve.
Some days, though, we do. For example,
I once heard a professor say:
"In any moment
you can judge
or you can grow curious enough
to learn, and then learn.
The choice is yours–
it's always yours."

At the time, this spoke straight into my people's abiding love of learning.
Stop judging to start learning?! Woot! I was all in.
Now, 20 years later, I've watched men seek to destroy
voice and choice, even life, for billions of wise bodies and souls
so I hear the value in judgement now too. And in shadow.

Trust your body. Trust your body.
Trust your body. Trust her judgement.
Trust her to feel and hold all feelings
or to run and hide or fight or fawn
or rage or weep like hell
and to connect with others
including strangers
to survive.
Some moments are hell.
Some days, months, years, are hell, too. Yes.
The point is feeling more of the whole
while not unnecessarily demanding
that all the other moments, days, and years here
be hell, for everyone, for you
too.

Do I need this moment to be hell?
Ask your body. Move where she says to go.
Judge, grow curious, learn, unlearn, run– as she directs.

I've long since forgotten
which professor offered me this
lovely judge or learn– you can't do both at once– nugget.
And I say, today,
shed everything.

Shed everything so you can hear now.
What matters most
to this place and this planet
to these people, this neighborhood
to this particular field, this favorite forest, this one bird, this sea
to this heart
to this time
to those beloved faces
sitting, witnessing, or dancing
in circle with you.

We're powerful beyond measure together.
Shed whomever
wherever whatever however–
today
or forever–
that which pumps up the fear within
the noise that makes you, specifically,
forget.

We are here to shed everything that makes us forget ourselves.
Everything that scratches, picks, and pokes
at our belonging.
Or, I am, anyway.

2. Hold

Wise men tell us
to let everything go.
Just let it go.
Have you noticed, though
that men aren't the wisest
or bravest among us?

Sorry gents.
In these bodies
we must also
hold. And telling others
to just let it go
is telling on yourself that you
cannot hold us today. Just say
that, instead. It's more honest
and you won't sound like an
over-privileged
clueless dick.

Those who shed
like I said
offer powerful gifts–
openness, emptiness
full presence
fully listening, and
leaning on far more than just
two frightened eyes
two anxious ears.

Having heard again
what matters most to you and your peeps and place
right now– which takes repeated lessons and
a lifetime time or two for some of us–
we return to ourselves.

Return to you.

Only as you
can you hold
all of this.
And only as us
can we.

Hold on to your self.
Hold on to every last sound and scent
being spirit place preference and dream
who you recognize as you, including that
Black woman today
banishing all delusions
that men and supremacy protect any of us.
Including,
that little girl
playing barefoot in the treehouse
unafraid and held by all the women
and all the trees
and all the dogs
all summer breezes, all birdsong
and all the gentle builders of imperfect treehouses
standing proudly beside their beloved trees
so no still-living tree had to be harmed
for their shelter or recreation.

Hold

Return to holding
when you recognize yourself
your people, your place, your belonging
as you feel
ready
or not.
Do you know what being ready
to be you again
feels like?

Feels like everything, all at once
like freedom, release, fire, grief, and determination
like becoming a volcano
playing tag with friends at dusk.
No longer running from chaos, abandonment, emptiness, or rage.
Running straight into the now
wearing clothes of your own choosing.
Recognizing your selves as part of all present
and more.

Hold

Return to what is yours to hold and yours to release.
Return to admitting what's yours to learn and unlearn now.
If you find yourself an adult (God help you)
this time with your inner child holding you gently by the hand for courage
return to always-visible and messy-imperfect solidarity
with those still holding the whole world on their tired shoulders.
That was you yesterday, and possibly, tomorrow.
Return to thanking people for their presence and input
unless that's really not you today, then rest or scream.
Let someone else be grateful for the world today.
Doesn't have to be you.
Return to holding who and what and where you love, near and far,
within the steadfast, fierce, and gentle arms
of all creation. Hold ample space and time for creating.
Insist on it. Create together
like ecosystems, nonbinary folk, and women do.
Oh yes. We do. We always have. We never stop creating.
You must create to notice.
Noticing is creation. Shit, I'm getting ahead of myself....

Without creating together
and grounding within our interconnection
steadfast can become a slog
fierce can become chronically wounded and wounding, misdirected blame, cruelty, violence, and self abandonment (aka, fascist)
gentle can become unseen, complicit, resentful, manipulation, enabling.

We need all three. We need
each other always too, and especially when
we decide to hold the human world
on our shoulders. Aka, the us
who doesn't shed
what's not ours to hold
right now.

And holding, yes, can sometimes bring us down.
That's a good time to...

3. Receive

Here's what happened today.

I slept poorly
woke up with an aching body
sad, stressed, blaming

I shut my angry eyes
received gentle early sunshine touching my face
because I just read that allowing the morning sun
to touch your face, like our ancestors did
is good for so many things, including your memory and brain.

I got out my notebook
dumped my angst
suffering and blame
into ink and paper, on the page
receiving the gifts of writing, writing teachers,
ancestors, notebook makers, pen makers, and the millions
of micromovements that writing itself
offers as gifts to our brains.
Typing and tapping
just aren't the same.

I went with D
to the glorious
little library in town
where I wrote for hours
surrounded by a view of the sea
books, magazines
newspapers, computers, flyers
patient and quiet librarians
excited and yell-whispering middle schoolers
focused-on-screens adults
one ridiculously cute toddler
insisting he could reach the water fountain
a good 10 inches above him
and a cute dog at the check out window
who was part Corgi, part Aussie.
We heard a librarian say through the return window:
"We can't hold dogs but
oh, how I wish we could."
Content with the mystery of that moment,
we headed home.

At home the sun re-emerged
we ate a very late lunch– thank you
farmers, containers that hold leftovers
makers of gluten-free pasta,
and my Dad
who grew and froze tomatoes for us last year.

And I drove to a writing/support group of women
at the Healing Circles center
where we wrote about aging and bodies
listened about aging and bodies
wept as I released pain
with six women as powerful witnesses– one
who reminds me of Mom and another
who reminds me of her best friend– all
older and wiser than me.
Those we love can show up anywhere.

I wrote about our old plum tree
everything I've learned from her over the years
about aging
but when I went to read it aloud
I spoke only of my mom,
who died in December, and
whose face, quiet counsel, and presence
I dearly miss.
Sometimes trees are mothers.
Sometimes, poets are right.

Thank you people who taught me
that sensitivity
and full presence
are gifts. That crying
each others' tears
is a leadership skill
of the highest order.
That women are magic
through and through.

Afterward
as I walked outside
a crow drifted down
landed 6 feet from me
hop-followed me down the block
across the street
in the crosswalk
to my car.
She seemed to know me so well:
intimately. Was this my Mom
showing up in spirit to reiterate
how truly not alone I am now?
With her absolutely everywhere?
I threw her a bite of my oatmeal cookie, just in case.
Mom loved cookies and crows are wise enough
to know if oatmeal, butter, and sugar are friend or foe.
Then, her friend joined us.
We reminisced a while.
They stayed with me
landing on telephone wires
and tree branches above me
as I drove slowly home
half a mile.

Now the summer evening sun is slanting
the sky is blue-ing
the cats each pick a beam to receive in
Daniel's cutting old hoses
into a sprinkler system
that works to keep us laughing and otherwise
will certainly not work. Working efficiently
is wildly overrated.
And here I am. I didn't even notice that I was writing again.
Writing this.
When I noticed, I tried to think back to waking up
and I can't for the life of me remember
why I was so alone and so full of blame and rage
when I woke up this morning.

Right.
Because today I've been receiving.
Not shedding. (my work to do)
Not holding. (my calling)
Receiving. (my joys)

Today, I've been
yin. We've been
yin here, together.
Don't believe the lies, guys–
yin's no time waster
yin's no sin.

Without yin
no collective play and joy
no evolution
no wonder and deep fun
no revolution
no conscious shedding
no holding our one small part of things together
no peaceful islands of coherence
no great music
no poetry
no realizing that you just received
the time and space you need
from a universe, a self, a friend, and a stranger
who all want you to be you.
All of whom
want you
free.

Receive and remember:
you cannot be
a has-been
when you're
yin.
;-)

4. Creation

Sunshine
remakes herself
on the fly—
to move through these leaves
of thimbleberry
flowering red currant
wild yarrow
marshmallow
rose petals
columbine flowers
Douglas fir branches
cat whiskers
duck bills
ashes and
eyelashes—
at unique, beneficial-to-all
velocities.

Sunshine remakes herself on the fly.
So does rain.

You can do the same.
Speak your name.
The name you first showed up with.
And the name you formed of flame
—one name or many— the name(s)
that hold all of you.

Some things take a lifetime of practice.
Some don't take any practice at all.
They require only that you
be you
with your wide-open intuition
and your heart that holds fields and wonder
beyond imagination.

Don't take my word for it,
I'm still learning. But I do know creation
and creators when I meet them now.
Friends,
this poem ends with a song.
Find, meet, and listen to Ka's stunning song:
Every Day, Every Week, Every Month.

His song re-syncs your heart
to the love-steady beat
of your own home planet.

If you don't feel this in every cell
the first time, just
play it again. And again.
And again.
Until you yourself are playing
or weeping
or both.

Thank you, Ka.
Thank you, creation.