Practising using my voice to say things that make me tremble. Remembering, when I'm in a tangle, that I can ask, "what am I really trying to say?" and that there's time to really try if I make it. Devoting myself to what needs to pour out.
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We watch Agnes Varda and I can't speak. I dream about picking grapes. The next day my mouth works: I place big words in the air, miles apart from each other, then dance around naked and pull them down to sit side by side in a way that makes sense.
But I've always got this fish slice tucked into in my rucksack pocket, ready to cut life through the middle.
I love it when my hips ache from walking and I’m reminded I exist.
There's blueness to the dark morning. A sparrow shares the wet mud with the grunting breakfasting pigs. Wrinkled club fungi shine out from the purplebrown leaves. Windblown ferns show their undersides. Clementine peel and pale broken branches are strewn. I think of beavers and squelch my shoe into a bike track. It’s midwinter and my hat head is too hot. Pigeons sing to the ones who want to stay…
Cooking and dancing as solace. Attempting to finding stillness after moving home.
The wheat and red poppies remind me of wanting to feel wanted.
“I’m really sad,” I said to the stranger sitting next to me at a gig –because I can’t not tell the truth– and they offered some words that I will keep with me.“It will make sense soon.”
Over and over again.
On not rejecting any parts of myself, authenticity and taking up space. Practising dancing with the shadows.
Luminous Symbols #1
