July, as witnessed.
Some moments taken in the body like medicine, like herbs warmed in salt water, stirred and stirred. Drunk.
Some moments like clouds passing through. Like my whole body was a cloud amongst clouds. In the clouds. Air like air. Clouds like clouds. The visible masses of condensed water vapor floating in the atmosphere, typically high above the ground. Like sky was my emotional body and love and heartbreak and all my defensive parts, the rage and dependency and dark dark dark--all of it, the sky. Here, but passing and also everything. Infinity. Hard to grasp, though I still grasp.
Some moments spoken and forgotten.
Some, with hard lines of intention (write every day; make a space here for intentional craft) that of course, I broke like the little rebellious fluid feeling heart that I am. Heart like sky. Heart like condensed water vapor. These things without boundary seeking boundary.
Here, the outer and the inner. What is remembered. What is crafted. What is imagined, dreamed, created, conjured. Creation. Create. Make. Produce. Bring forth. Beget. Artifice. Art.
The sprinklers at night, the wet wet grass under the moonlight in Observatory Park. The way the dog walks in front of me through the dark and inside, I know I am safe despite safety being an illusion. The wet grass in the mornings and the sun through the trees. There is always a moment, half-alone with my dog on our daily walks, where I remember to take a breath. Whatever is circulating around my mind (the thousand-petaled mind) relaxes down into my feet as I sink my toes into the wet, dark mud. I say, look. And there it is, every time. The light, pointed or soft, behind something. Between, around, and through. Persisting. Tree leaves, iron fence posts, a house in the neighborhood that no longer fit between its expensive, stone-walled neighbors, demolished. A giant hole in the ground where a home used to be. One day, something a part of its foundation. The next, neither foundation nor its walls left but in memory. The quiet, raw earth beneath it revealed. Red mud, yellow bulldozers and giant silver wrecking balls idle beside what has been destroyed. What has been destroyed? Identity, again and again. Identify home. Identify love. Identify career. Identify this flight from Florida to Colorado. Identify this man beside me in his musty, thick flannel. Sawdust and the cologne of a farmer in the sky. Jeans like a farmer in the sky. Grunts and facial hair like a farmer in the sky. Small bible in his breast pocket like a farmer in the sky. Tan and crusted work boots like a farmer in the sky. Smile at me like a farmer in the sky as we cross over America and her struggling farms below, the long dirt roads between the cities, the tan and the green, the meandering crevices of water and how it, too, persists. Beside me, the farmer in the sky reads his pocket bible and takes notes in a larger bible. For a moment, I imagine him preparing a sermon. I close my eyes and feel his breath, how his large body can't help but take up space. How I try not to shrink beside him. How much I want us all to take up space without negating or encroaching beyond what is ours. What is ours? He reads the bible and I read Thich Nhat Hanh. I think about love. The love I left under the sky I loved. The love I am searching for in this sky, by this farmer, in myself, as he circles what he loves in pages I don't love but understand. The love I flew away from hours ago. The love beneath the love. The sky beneath the sky. What is the difference between desire and grasping? How to seek with our whole souls together, me in this short black skirt letting my hungry thighs free for the first time in years, and the farmer beside me in thick jeans and his old flannel breathing steadily, more steady that I have in a while, circling, circling, circling what he wants to be true. I circle how to love myself. We are all looking for this. The bodies, the shivers, the turns toward and away from those who choose to lay naked beside us. The wrinkles and gray hair and shifts in the gut, the cells as they make and remake what we think we are. The purple veins appearing like rivers seen from above. Something like blood on the surface. Something like a body who hasn't felt sweat like this since she left suddenly walking around Little Havana in Miami with a body she only sort-of-knows. Both of them covered in sweat and salt from the ocean that morning. Both of them dripping desire between the thighs. Both of them soft and hard, wanting something from the other but discovering new layers of armor, new ways to thrust forth anyway. There is nothing to escape or grasp so the bodies become all liquid and slippery together. All repel and repeat, all soluble and mixture. Not oil and water. But oil and oil. Water and water. Two things separate but still attracted by some similar force. Later, what comes up is welcomed. Here, what comes up is a storm. A storm like a bulldozer. A hunger like a hole in the ground where a house once was. Plans for home. Plans for love. Plans for something interdependent but whole. Wholesome. Hole. Whole. But that comes later. For now, the bodies need to keep coming together. Coming together. Today. And then, today. Once, there was a blue sky I didn't think I could leave. A blue I didn't know I could live without. And then, there was a sky more layered. Look, on this walk the sun is on the mountains headed to a better rest. The yellow there is a light I've never seen before. Above, the bluest purple of rain clouds that refuse to let go of their rain. And above that, the blue I thought I couldn't hold again. There it is, with me. Here I am, holding it. Look here, this is my space. My home. An apartment. Another place I'll leave. A space that is more beautiful than anything I've ever let myself create. Mine. More home than I've ever made. Come inside. See the woman sitting there in her quiet? She is happy. She is facing what she left. She is herself is herself is herself. Take it or leave it. Take it. Take me in. All I left made me capable. All I thought I loved makes me want to love more. All the loss is not loss. There is another woman sitting here. A notebook in her lap. An orange mechanical pencil. She lets me look into her eyes and hold the gaze without a flinch. This is god, is yoga, is to yoke. It is not about union as if we are all one. We are all actually separate, side-by-side. The gaze, the relationship, the holding and going in despite all the discomfort of showing up a human with so much stuff. Of wanting but not needing. Of desire like a hole in the ground. The dirt that sifts, takes in the water it is given. Hardens enough to build upon again. Walls built like arms open to the sky.