Each time there is a crack and something breaks in, there is a gush of aliveness. I cry for what I’ve been missing and didn’t even know was gone. I am working in the subtle layers, the aspects of my subconscious mind stream that aren’t so clear, perceptible, in my face. The ones that run the inner story. One moment I feel at ease or content, maybe not too much happening, then—WHAM!—something breaks in. Some moment of direct experience that I am here for:
~the word throat
~a red and green knitted cap on the head of a woman in silence before the morning hill
~two benches connected by grief, prayer flags, absence, the heart memory of two sons, two brothers, two friends now gone—Lane Thomas and Reid Gilbert
The rest of the time seems so strained and contained.
I am dropping layer by layer closer to the bone.
Bone is one small cavity nested, one atop another, to form a seeming solid. It incases the marrow. The very lifeblood that runs through the core of every living vessel. The red, sticky heat core liquid that sustains life.
This is what language can do. What I want my words to do. I want them to be cavities of structure nested one atop another to house and remain close to the life- sustaining core.
Femur holds the story of leg
Rib the story of heart and lung
Scapula the story of shoulder blade
Patella the story of knee
Each one forms around a particular purpose
A life-giving organ of soft tissue
This is what each story must do.
This is the breathing body of home.