Skip to main content

Changing the Song

His words are sharp, jagged, tearing even, by a dull-witted knife, repeatedly moved against the skin, but without much hope for a clean cut. So many years of wounds reopened, threaten deadly infection. I've always wondered if gangrene was green in color.

You'd think the skin had grown tougher after all this time, but it might be that it is slightly more tender.

I take this to be a good thing. No matter the wounds, I prefer tender.

I prefer to challenge the idea that such hurtful words, if spoken, must be true. I prefer to see what deep pain and fear has birthed them.

I prefer to rub my skin with the balm of those who recognize that every war has two losers.

I yearn to find it in my being, that stopping place, where war is spit out, and laughter bubbles up.

I absorb his words like pollution, hoping some deadly cancer is not being colonized in my body, but without enough consequence to keep me from taking a deep, cleansing breath even with heavy traffic. I let the sirens change key as they pass by, without hailing them to save me. I let the smoke he blows rise up into the air, as counterpart to this Parisian café, as the cross-hatched imprints across my backside.

I let his words be what they are.

I make room for them in my story, not as something I marched against for long--having long abandoned the fight--but as something that reminded how sensitive the skin, how powerful the words, the voice, to vibrate in the body, long after they are no longer audible, like a violin whose skin still echos with dark music, long after sound has faded.

I no longer need protect my skin, to cover it, or shield it from discordant tones.

Rather, I let the music play itself out, and fill me with sensation. I let it wash over me, and through me. I welcome the waves.

I let peacock feathers stand erect, in all their splendor, and gasp at hidden beauty.

I inject a spaciousness from deep within my being, dipped from an eternal spring of precious love of self, no longer requiring regular stoking.

I sway with the dance as soothing aria swirls about the discordant tones with tender, knowing caress, so as not to spook, until the cacophony falls into mesmerized step, and they merge in sacred harmony.

Such strange music results, gently tucking itself back into my center, leaving me its refrains, and new echos that speak of remembering.

I weave this melody around and through, a braid of song for him, for myself, and for those upon whom I've unleashed my own torrents of fear, my own unassuageable grief, disguised as blame and anger.

I rest in song that makes room for all of it. I rest in song as it all falls away.


Post a Comment

♥ Thank you for taking the time connect with me here. ♥

Popular posts from this blog

RIP Poltergeist

After over ten years of an incredibly intense journey as a seeker, I find myself lying fallow. Taking a rest. When I first discovered this uncomfortable fact — threat to the hamster wheel that was my spiritual rat race, I surrendered for dead, but something wouldn’t let that fact sit as truth. I was lying fallow, but this implied that after a good rest, fruit could follow. This had nothing to do with death.

I am humbled at the courage it takes to write. For many years I kept a blog read by only a handful of very supportive people, and you’d think that after sharing writing for so long with perfect strangers, writing would have gotten easier. Actually, it got harder. In fact, at one point I was so paralyzed, I just stopped writing altogether. It was just too vulnerable. There was no trust there anymore, and I attributed any courage I had had to my youthful ignorance.

However, life continues, as it inevitably does, and there is still this pang to write, and it grows stronger and strong…

Here With You

Photo by Daria Obymaha on
Sinking lips into your tiny round cheeks, I'm home. Holding your tiny head to my heart, caressing my chin to your downy baby 'chicken fluff' we'll come to call it later, I'm home. Taking in your baby magic scent, I'm home. Pressing nose to nose, forehead to forehead, staring wide-eyed into each other's eyes, I'm home. Toting little bum and dangling legs around my middle, I'm home. Filled with purpose as you point where to go, what you see, I'm home. Your eyes, new windows to a world I thought I knew, I'm home. Holding you with fever, picking you up when you fall, I'm home. Navigating the years between, boxes of your firsts, every paint brush and pen stroke a miracle, I'm home. Saving pottery penguins, turtles, shiny red roses, a burrito with all the fixings immortalized in clay, I'm home. Kid sister fruit and craft stand on the corner, change clinking in coin purse, magic for the neighborhood…


The other night I had a vivid dream that my youngest daughter had died.

There is a time when I would have been unable to even bring this to consciousness, let alone write about it. It has always been my deepest, darkest fear, to lose a child, and this fear has always been there prominently with my youngest.

In the dream I could conceptualize her under her grave, which happened to be in a dark, jagged cavern of colorless rock and stone--no lush lawn, no flowers, just a gaudy gravestone, that glowed, like a tacky neon sign in Vegas. I found myself digging frantically in the earth under her grave marker to retrieve her little bear, so much loved by her in her five short years, that it is no less 'real' than the Velveteen Rabbit.

I found the bear mixed with rubble above where she was buried, brushed it off, and clasped it to my heart, as if it was the last part of her I could keep with me. I pressed the little bear hard to my nose, sniffing for remnant smells of my daughter. The smel…