Stardust and Dead Things
Chasing words.
What to write?
Pacing.
How to say it?
Blinking cursor.
Silence.
Hot shower.
Ideas flash in fits and starts,
fragments and pieces,
bones and splinters.
I grab a towel and stop before the big arched mirror.
I see the girl I used to be in the freckles along my shoulders. I squint and notice fresh wrinkles and battle-won scars earned like stripes after war. My eyes flit over those faint tan lines, remnants of last summer's saltwater escapades.
Outside, I hear thunder dissipating. Storms letting up.
Usually, when a deadline is imminent and daily life seems to be fighting against me rather than with me, I try to force creativity to show up. I forget about the wildness of her and attempt to arm-wrestle her into typeset cages of Book Antiqua.
I laugh to myself as I think of how ludicrous it is to expect something as feral as Creativity to willingly welcome shackles. I should know by now that it’s only when I uncurl my fingers and loosen my grasp that she shows up.
I slip out the back door, barefoot.
Warm spring rain smashes against bright green grass and saturates every thread of my linen dress. I stand still until I am soaked to the bone.
I shut my eyes and listen to each satisfying
thud,
thud,
thud,
of water against hungry soil,
against my hungry soul.
Life is humming all around.
Inhale.
You are the work.
Exhale.
The work is you.
When she’s ready, Creativity always finds me. Inspiration swirls like threaded looms spinning fragments of color and concept, celestial and wild, unwilling to be tamed by pen or brush. The truth is that when I slow down and am finally ready to listen, words and colors manifest from within, spilling out and over the brim of my head like mercurial poems gasping for air.
I sit, coy and quiet, while she saunters in all hips and sass like a cat in search of sunshine. If I’m patient, she’ll shift and slither over the tops of my toes, curling around my ankles and flicking her cold snake tongue against my legs, my stomach, my heart. And before I can blink, she shape-shifts again, skitting above my head all monarch wings and hummingbird wisps.
I see you, I whisper.
And then I wait. I know better than to try and possess her. In that, we are the same. Creativity and I are twin flames, refusing to be held and demanding to be beheld. And I am dazzled by her gaze. I could lay under the shade of her wing for eternity and still beg for more.
There you are (here we are).
Finally, I’ve found you (we’ve been here all this time, haven’t you heard our song?)
The proverbial cat cocks her head and licks her paw.
I smile.
In the yard, a giant old oak sways as I reach out and stroke her cracking skin. She is rough and warm, this ancestral mage who is mother and sister and daughter all at once. I tap right-left, right-left against her bark. Palms open, letting her ridged edges scrape my heartline. Back and forth, back and forth, unlocking my parasympathetic soul — lungs releasing and filling with air, bones easing under the weight of white-knuckle tendons, stretched-tight blood vessels settling and expanding.
The tree heaves against a gust of wind and I think of her roots. They are like bones buried deep underground, an anchoring. I think of my own roots and how they aren’t anchored in any place. Their anchor is in me, in the landscape of my heart, in the water of my soul, in the ridges of my own worn skin. We are made of the same good stuff, this tree and I — earth and stardust and hope and dead things made new.
I’m softer when I’m out of my head. The heartbeat of the earth becomes my own, as it always has been. Only now, I am listening. I feel the whoosh of air rise as I push my breath out and up, spiraling toward her massive branches. I imagine each crystalline particle shimmering in some magic way my primordial eye can’t see, each bit of light catching the breath from my lungs as it lands along her ancient torso. Look at how we are symbiotic even when we aren’t trying.
When I look around at the pulsing wounds of the world and as I take inventory of her many, many broken pieces, I feel the same angst as when I can’t make Creativity do what I want her to do. I feel the ache of not-enoughness as a hopeless wash of helplessness colors everything gray. So many horrific cruelties, pointless rages, and senseless losses. How can we ever, ever make any of it better? I am learning to settle into myself, like Creativity, and to dig my roots deep, like the oak tree. I am learning to look around and find ways to manifest the healing I want so badly for this world and each of us. I look to the women, to the heartbeat of us which is the heartbeat of the tree and every living thing there ever was. Every inhale and exhale brings life forth. One small kindness at a time. One march at a time. One policy change at a time. One life at a time.
You are the work. The work is you.
I am the work. The work is me.
We are the work. The work is us.
FIVE FAVES
Fine art prints by Thunder Voice Eagle Diné (Navajo) / Totonoc Fine Artist, painter, and designer. I love everything in this shop, their hats and one-of-a-kind jackets and especially the art prints. I have Girl With a Turquoise Earring II in my home and love that it’s the artist’s interpretation of a classic reimagined from a Native American perspective.
These tanks from Free People are pretty much what I’ll be living in all summer long.
In honor of Earth Week, I ordered free Milkweed seeds and plan to scatter them in our yard and along the walkways in our neighborhood. Milkweed is the only plant Monarch caterpillars eat, and with their population declining, it’s an easy and fun way to support these vital pollinators (PS - I made a donation to support their cause but the seeds are free!)
This book, which I’m almost finished with and keep prolonging because I’m not quite ready to be done with her yet. Sue Monk Kidd is a phenomenal writer and the way she strings words together leaves me floating.
Trader Joe’s Everyday Seasoning is basically my secret weapon for All The Things. I put it on chicken, in pasta, over bread, and on top of salads (it's delish over scrambled eggs too! )If you don’t have a TJ’s near you, you can snag it here.
"I think of my own roots and how they aren’t anchored in any place. Their anchor is in me, in the landscape of my heart, in the water of my soul, in the ridges of my own worn skin. We are made of the same good stuff, this tree and I — earth and stardust and hope and dead things made new." Ughhhhhhhhhh 🔥🔥