Walking with my Wings

I was out of sync. this morning. The pink gyroscope in my garnet jello heart was out of balance. Even blogging couldn’t rouse me. You know it’s serious then! I’ve noticed that just watching these slumps can make them worse. Tiny judgments creep in, assumptions that the mood will keep sinking. It’s a small but powerful difference.

So I decided to walk to where I vote. As I walked the rare, saturated colors of ephemeral leaves watched me. no refererI thought of the seasons and how they continue before and beyond me. I could sleep forever and the world would continue. I realized my burden was not really mine, I just thought it was. I had made it mine. Now I saw the leaves would help shoulder it for me. The air was warm and sweet, and it also comforted me, but only when I let it. So I let it, reluctantly. The air wasn’t offended at all.

At the polling station, I was told my precinct had been moved, and was actually closer to me than before. I spoke a few minutes with a city council person. We spoke of the arts and how cities need them to stay healthy. I felt healthier hearing that. And hearing it from such a friendly representative.

As I headed back, I took a detour through a wooded neighborhood. I haven’t taken detours in awhile. I’ve been staying on the main path way too much. no refererThe colors I saw are indescribable. Colors have so much to say, but they say it without words.

I began to think of my pink gyroscope garnet jello heart, and how such a tiny imbalance can throw it out of whack. And I thought how I needn’t fear, because there’s so many things to help re-align it, just the right amount, not too much, not too little. I heard a little rattle in my head.

I thought how light my soul is, the weight of a butterfly. I usually want to think of myself as a 160 lb., gravity pulled, lump of flesh, weighed down by life. no refererBut my butterfly soul has wings of words, which flap against the molecules of indescribable colors and are lifted by the warm, sweet air of my friends’ thoughts.

An hour later, I’m feeling lighter, and the light outside my window is glowing as if it knows. It’s glowing from within, with me.

And what seemed like a huge burden was just a little tiny misplaced ounce of perception and assumption of who and how I am.

Technorati tags- , , ,

18 thoughts on “Walking with my Wings

  1. I totally understand that huge burden turning out to be a tiny misplaced ounce of perception and assumption of who and how I am. Detours can be revealing, can’t they?

  2. Good timing. I’m figuring that out. Perhaps you can tell. Yes, I’d say vulnerability. But I also think it has to be shared in thin slices. Too much and it swallows itself, shuts down. At least that’s what I’m feeling as i write more. Perhaps awareness of detail is what I’m thinking. Vulnerability alone just sits there. Why do you ask?

  3. Garnet,
    One of things i think most often of when i write is Presence. (I learned from reading th epoetry of Li-Young Lee.) I figure that a person must have vulnerability, integrity, and most importantly, the ability to express both of those in a way that transcends boundaries. For instance, too many times, i read blog poetry that spews individual pathos and does not connect with the universal. It’s is frustrating, because i see a lot of good poets/writers out there, but it seems they don’t know how to connect to the larger scheme of things. your thoughts?

  4. I agree, but I see lots who have raw skills with words and who just haven’t honed them, or those who have skills but don’t share vulnerability. What intrigues me is the writer who is moving toward the goals you outlined, even if it’s in fits and starts. If the struggle is there, I’m interested.

    One of the wonderful things about blogging is the feedback. I take lots of time with the blogs I read, to be able to respond with integrity, to really try to see what they’re doing, even if it’s not clear. I wouldn’t be writing if it weren’t for the comments. Thought I enjoy the simple compliments, that’s not why I’m here. I want to grow, to learn, to struggle. And I’m only just beginning to be willing to expose myself more deeply. And I sense my friends here are with me, watching, enjoying my progress, but also hinting if they don’t get where I’m coming from.

    I think the last thing you listed, being in touch with the larger scheme, is the most challenging. A writer must be aware of himself first, then hone his skills at communicating that self, THEN he can really speak universally. (these happen simultaneously, but build in that order) To connect our pain and joy with others through our words. That is why we write. (I’m figuring out all this stuff for the first time here on my blog. I’m not a writer, really, just a dabbler who loves learning and wants to improve)

  5. If I may post. This brother has “Presence”:


    n sixth grade Mrs. Walker
    slapped the back of my head
    and made me stand in the corner
    for not knowing the difference
    between persimmon and precision.
    How to choose

    persimmons. This is precision.
    Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted.
    Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one
    will be fragrant. How to eat:
    put the knife away, lay down the newspaper.
    Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat.
    Chew on the skin, suck it,
    and swallow. Now, eat
    the meat of the fruit,
    so sweet,
    all of it, to the heart.

    Donna undresses, her stomach is white.
    In the yard, dewy and shivering
    with crickets, we lie naked,
    face-up, face-down,
    I teach her Chinese.
    Crickets: chiu chiu. Dew: I’ve forgotten.
    Naked: I’ve forgotten.
    Ni, wo: you and me.
    I part her legs,
    remember to tell her
    she is beautiful as the moon.

    Other words
    that got me into trouble were
    fight and fright, wren and yarn.
    Fight was what I did when I was frightened,
    fright was what I felt when I was fighting.
    Wrens are small, plain birds,
    yarn is what one knits with.
    Wrens are soft as yarn.
    My mother made birds out of yarn.
    I loved to watch her tie the stuff;
    a bird, a rabbit, a wee man.

    Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class
    and cut it up
    so everyone could taste
    a Chinese apple. Knowing
    it wasn’t ripe or sweet, I didn’t eat
    but watched the other faces.

    My mother said every persimmon has a sun
    inside, something golden, glowing,
    warm as my face.

    Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper,
    forgotten and not yet ripe.
    I took them and set them both on my bedroom windowsill,
    where each morning a cardinal
    sang, The sun, the sun.

    Finally understanding
    he was going blind,
    my father sat up all one night
    waiting for a song, a ghost.
    I gave him the persimmons,
    swelled, heavy as sadness,
    and sweet as love.

    This year, in the muddy lighting
    of my parents’ cellar, I rummage, looking
    for something I lost.
    My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs,
    black cane between his knees,
    hand over hand, gripping the handle.
    He’s so happy that I’ve come home.
    I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question.
    All gone, he answers.

    Under some blankets, I find a box.
    Inside the box I find three scrolls.
    I sit beside him and untie
    three paintings by my father:
    Hibiscus leaf and a white flower.
    Two cats preening.
    Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth.

    He raises both hands to touch the cloth,
    asks, Which is this?

    This is persimmons, Father.

    Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk,
    the strength, the tense
    precision in the wrist.
    I painted them hundreds of times
    eyes closed. These I painted blind.
    Some things never leave a person:
    scent of the hair of one you love,
    the texture of persimmons,
    in your palm, the ripe weight.

    Li-Young Lee

  6. Hi Garnet,
    It’s so rare that we feel a pure emotion. They usually come bundened togehter in some stew, like insecuity with some loss and touch or anger and frustration. Pure emotions actually fell good I think. I felt pure anger twice–once when a doctor’s ego midlead my dad about my mom’s dying condition. It felt good, because there was no heavy baggage with it.

    Nature helps me sort and uncomplicate my emotions. It’s hard for me to keep track of too many of them when the visuals of creations are valling my eyes to comprehend them. And once I’ve sorted my feelings who’s to say that I should go with one more than another? Just because I feel 50% lonely and only 20% at peace–does that mean that the peaceful feeling is less true, less me? Can I not hold that one up to look at and to love?

    I’ve learned to drive in the direction I am looking and to look in the direction I want to go. That’s what you did this day. You didn’t wait for peace to find you. You found that thread of peace within yourself and followed it.

  7. THe joy of the unexpected detiur is like no other. Sometimes we find importent things only when we are lost. You always find that something in the last place you look. I like the synthesis of word and image, and the shots are beautiful. I’m linking to you on my page. I hope these comments put as big a smile on your face as your’s did on mine.

  8. Walking with my wings —– “sounds” of my Son David. It is you and I love it as I do you.

  9. Dave:
    “Colors have so much to say, but they say it without words.” You could not have stated that any better. Again, introspective and honest, I like how you juxtapose the colors of nature with the lightness of being.

Comments are closed.