New View . . . Breathe . . . New Year

I wrote this on my phone, and I sent it to a friend that day (with a photo of the view that inspired it). 

December 13, 2016

All photos in this post by Mary Anne Stewart (December 13, 2016 - from Neff's Canyon trailhead)

The Present and I

This was written twenty years ago, while visiting Egypt. 

What optimism I had back then, barely age 21. But looking at the photos, I can remember how I felt when I was there, and how the poem originated.

Photos (above and below this caption) were taken by Mary Anne Stewart (1996, Luxor, Egypt)

Rose

Rose

shrink 
and whither
It is our story
Remain furled
fade
into the shadows

do not show
What will not win
Do not fill 
the space where
You
might shine
The glory
of that time
has passed
The prize
is now too
valuable for you
When
out of season
torn and brown
rain worn, 
blown this way
and that
unashamed 
of thorns
you dare to be
                   Seen           

                     You do not dare

                            to see our shame

These petals still

Adorn what's left

weather stripped

but stronger still

than wind that mocks

Our glory

How do you know 

the measure of her worth?

She does not seek 

to be lit as a spark

She does not boast

This is no victory 

We have not overcome

Whatever force

or will produced

these thorns

before we knew

her youth

before you saw

the flaws that scream

Now to be heard
It is all we can do to 

Not dismiss

each layer that protects

what you continue

to neglect

(written December 15, 2016)

Waves

waves are lonely

(written December 13, 2016 - before sunrise and sleep)

The only way I feel alive

is wild and unsteady

As a wave

Swirling, never stopping

rarely sleeping

Ready

Needing to be ready

Alert to match the wind

Catch the height

Meet the depths

The structure of the 

motion can't be counted

in a meter

or produced

and rehearsed

as a part

to be played

The Only dance

is found

in what is offered

and received

All at once

as it arrives

and it leaves

Fullness

is not realized

when emptiness

enters and crashes

too soon

on a memory,

barely formed

but not quite safe

to be held

and adored

waves are lonely

that way

I'm poetry these days . . .

December 27, 2016.

This is a good day to start a habit called, I am Poetry. I plan to write, or at least post, one poem each day. 

Since this is the introduction to this experiment, I feel it is important to explain my purpose in trying it right now.

I am really struggling with mental and emotional distress, which I have been battling for decades. I have been diagnosed with bipolar disorder a few times in my life, and I mostly do not think it even begins to explain what is happening inside my brain, or how it gets translated into my behavior. However, it validates my experience in some ways. I am acutely aware of both weaknesses and strengths I have, and this leaves me feeling very lonely, like walking on a constant tight rope of hiding and expressing -- often stumbling between the two.

I mostly feel like I am a burden to the people who have to interact with me. Sadly, this now includes how I feel when I interact with my three teenagers. I am painfully aware of my inconsistency, the way my anxiety is difficult to contain, the way I lack filters to limit what I say -- when all I want is to be silent again. I miss the very experience that may have led to my madness in the first place, which is that ability to maintain composure and hide my anxiety in a way that others could take my peaceful nature for granted. I do not miss pretending I was well, but I miss the ability to control my behavior -- particularly that of talking. 

Over the last six years or so, it has become increasingly difficult to hide, contain, or maintain much semblance of calmness in most situations. Thankfully, I am still able to be calm as a therapist, but it is not a given -- I still have to deliberately focus on it to be what the clients who see me are needing. 

The first poem in this series is a meta-analysis. Well, at least it is meta regarding my inability to stop thinking in poetry. 

Also, you may notice an allusion to how these words came to me. They truly woke me from a restless few hours of sleep, when I should have been completing a deadline for work.  

But the real origin of this poem is a result of accidentally writing "I'm poetry" while texting a friend. 

16.12.20

I am Poetry

I have lost track 

of everything 

except for timelessness.

All that seems familiar

calls from space

unseen 

Now and there,

untouched here

One language

I do not forget

is nature 

wild in her composition 

peaceful in her

dance

Quiet in her exclamation

of barely different

shades of white, separated

only by one thin 

not frail

horizon line

Whitest white

on mountain ranges

with their edges

and their lonely 

Peaks

watching over ones

who are lost beneath

and surrounded 
by their sacred

Presence

Let me know

this stillness

Still

I am weary of this

Act

I am weary 

of attempting to meet 
demands of the sinking 
now of time 

as something tangible that needs

a force

to pull it forward

My mind will not match

or march to the 

rhythm 

of time or the 

logic 

of rhyme or the beat of a drum that is metered

It only knows poetry

songs and souls

unbridled and unveiled

It seems to only know 

the ones I have known

forever, the ones 

I will always know 

These words spill 

out and spiral forth

this morning 

Just before I enter

what some call awake

from that place some know

as sleep 

So I succumb to this

Creativity and wild

curiosity

only to keep

discovering that time

and deadlines

still exist

running faster and farther

away from me,

faster than I can bear 

Someone, please

slow me down

soften the impact 

loosen the grip

on this rope that confines me

and reminds me

I am not home 

I have not yet

the wings 

to fly there

It seems to be

only madness now

to open so fully 

my heart and mind 

to dimensions

my body is not

yet allowed

to enter or ready

to abide

It is nearly perfect

Insanity

to think in poems

so urgently --

hoping they will anchor me

while they invade,

unravel the night 

and day of this 

seemingly endless

space where time is set

and defined

I begin to detest these words --

even the ones 

that should leave me

speechless

Yet here

beside me, single

unadorned and loyal

Fir tree 

standing straight (not tall)

inside our house,

in its lack of trying

is not concerned 

about being confined,

in its simple

confidence

Completes

my incomplete

It knows me,

and it whispers 

Solidarity, 

telling me 

I will be

as I was

as I am 

I am

My Favorite Swedish Poet

I am thinking about suffering, and how I was led to a seemingly obscure compilation of poetry, Toward the Solitary Star (written by an equally obscure Swedish poet), at a time when I needed new eyes for old, old troubles.

This poet was the first to come to my mind when a 
friend sent out an inquiry regarding poetry that 
people had been reading and could recommend.

Question Against the Night

The light that should flow free
and penetrate the wall of loneliness---

Östen Sjöstrand  (from Homelessness and Home, translated by Robin Fulton)

Östen Sjöstrand's poetry conveys some of my 

deepest sentiments about life and death, and sparks 

hope in me for a better world. Carl Jung is one who 

well understood the depths of darkness required to 

attain and withstand a life of light. 



  By Carl Jung “Night sinks blue and deep from above, earth rises black from below.”


Madrigal


Night came, and sickness struck me with silence,

paralyzed my eye and my foot,

it paralyzed my eye and my foot.

The Physician came, and the Physician said to me:

for this night there is no cure,

there is no cure

Love came, and love said to me:

the night may hide your being, your root

but it cannot hide --- that spark

that spark that dwells in your innermost space

--- and burns, beyond the reach of night


by Östen Sjöstrand (translated by Robin Fulton)


For a dear friend: 

II (from Hidden Music)

     While shining night clouds,

     dark nebulae, draw past,

     I listen----not

to the sunk cathedral's bells

     which fall silent

     with the distant ocean.

     

     I hear a pulsing universe

     inside my closed eyelids

by Östen Sjöstrand (translated by Robin Fulton)

For Those at the Limit (Östen Sjöstrand)

For you outcast in darkness

for you forced to keep silence

in this desert of oppressed and exiled lives

for you with broken driving belts

with the wheels of emotion worn out

for you who can no longer wait for day

because day has changed into boundlessness

for you in the searchlight world of catchwords

where fear with a movement of the hand can extinguish

all the stars in everyone

for you comrades among watching eyes

tormented by the dark's denied questions

this song under the earth

this last that is possible

the most secret crime

the only thing possible --- like a seed,

like a flower,

like the mining town's dark brown rain

(translated by Robin Fulton)

This is taken from one of several blogs I have kept over the last decade:

A Secret Growth, Secret Well-springs 

Originally posted on January 16, 2013

Lately I have been helping my clients who have experienced trauma access a part of themselves that has not been damaged, that is at peace with the world, and that is safe. For some it is linked to a higher power, and for others it can be described as a "safe place" or a deep knowledge that they are worthy to be loved. I have yet to meet with someone who has never been able to identify such a place of peace. Even if someone has only experienced it for a small moment, it is there, and can often be rediscovered through a simple process of mindful awareness. It is at the core of each of us, and is a space where healing is possible. It is often buried beneath layers and layers of hurt and deception - by others and by the self. 

It is what my favorite Swedish poet often refers to in his poems, such as how he describes it here . . .

     The truth
wins its power of growth in the soil:
underground
we win a new understanding
that draws us up
like trees,
like an oak---
with its crown
with its downy grey shoots.

Underground---
the honorable, uncorroded will,

the innermost
will to live.

By Östen Sjöstrand, translated by Robin Fulton
From Nameless (Stanza IV: A Secret Growth, Secret Well-springs)

For me, it is most noticeable when I am completely present in a moment. Being in the mountains, playing music with all of my heart, and being in tune with a loved one are some of the times I have felt it. I felt it as I noticed a few of my clients experiencing it during their sessions this week. I knew they were experiencing healing, and they knew it too.

When I am able to find it - or it finds me - I know that I know that I know what I am feeling is true in that moment, and it keeps me committed to living. 

I love this photo I found on the National Geographic website, actually named . . .

Will to Live. 

                                          Photo and caption by Tony Murray

                            Near the small town of Escalante Utah is a narrow, dirt road. If you follow the road for a                   couple of hours you will come to a place that is    unlike any other. Over time pits have been                 created in the sandstone cliffs and trees have sprung up in the only soil available in the area.               This one being unique in that the pit is very deep, only allowing for a few hours of sunlight to             his the tree each day. I was lucky enough on this occasion to have a great sunset backdrop to               the shot.

                              Location: Escalante Utah

There could not be a better visual image of this concept. Having spent four peaceful days in the Escalante area over the summer, I find this photo even more meaningful than I would otherwise.